"Lawsuit?" repeated Mr. Zinsheimer. "Now, Flossie, that's been going on for five years and I never found out yet what it was all about. Where is it and when will it be settled?"
Flossie's evident embarrassment at the inquiry into the facts of her lawsuit was fortunately terminated by the sudden entrance of a bell-boy with a telegram for "Miss Forsythe."
"That's me, boy," cried Flossie, grabbing the envelope and tearing it open. "It's from Pinkie and she'll be here on the 3:30 train," she explained, turning to Zinsheimer. "Boy, call me a carriage."
"Yes, Miss," responded the boy, moving toward the office.
"And have it charged to my room," called Flossie, hastily. Then, taking "Marky" by the coat lapels, she turned her big brown eyes upward and asked archly:
"You will speak to the manager about Pinkie?"
Mr. Zinsheimer endeavored to gain time, but the appeal was direct and to the point. He coughed twice, as if planning resistance, and then surrendered.
"All right," he growled. "I'll speak to the manager, Flossie, but I know who'll pay the bill."
"You old dear," cried Flossie, and in another moment the rattling chatelaines, the vague and unrecognizable perfume, the rustling skirts and the fascinating Flossie flitted along the veranda toward the waiting carriage, while "Marky" tried to get interested in the New York papers and figure the total of seventeen days at five dollars a day, with extras in the shape of flowers, carriages, candies, manicures, tips, and other incidentals dear to the heart of a lovely woman who lives economically but well.