“No.”
“Oh, go on and get married. I think it’s a swell idea. Name the first one after me and I’ll send it a rattle. Can I borrow a brassiere?”
“There’s one in the bottom drawer.”
“You’d better start buying a lot of brassieres,” Gin called, after inspecting the supply in the lower drawer. “Most of yours aren’t the right kind.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’d better buy a lot because girls who get engaged always wear very tight ones. Haven’t you noticed? They never flop. They don’t have to.”
“You’re vulgar,” said Flo.
“No, really. It ought to be one of the first things into the hope chest.”
There was a disgusted silence. She finished dressing, though one of her stockings had a run and it took a long time to find another pair. She felt jumpy, and it wasn’t nearly seven, when Harvey was to call for her. Swishing into the living room, she picked up a “Photoplay” and tried to settle down, but she kept thinking of Flo. Flo was smoking and reading and looking very determined.
“You’re all dressed up too,” Gin said at last, trying to ignore the chill in the room. She thought that she sounded much too bright and conciliatory, but something had to be done. “What’s on?”