Charlotte. I’ll answer it.
Jerry. You needn’t bother.
Cli-n-ng! An impatient ring that.
Charlotte and Jerry [together]. Now, listen here—
They both start for the door. Jerry turns, only trying to argue with her some more, and what does the woman do but slap his face! Then, quick as a flash, she is by him and has opened the door.
What do you think of that? Jerry stands there with an expressionless face. In comes Charlotte’s sister Doris.
Well, now, I’ll tell you about Doris. She’s nineteen, I guess, and pretty. She’s nice and slender and dressed in an astonishingly close burlesque of the current fashions. She’s a member of that portion of the middle-class whose girls are just a little bit too proud to work and just a little bit too needy not to. In this city of perhaps a quarter of a million people she knows a few girls who know a few girls who are “social leaders,” and through this connection considers herself a member of the local aristocracy. In her mind, morals, and manners she is a fairly capable imitation of the current moving-picture girl, with overtones of some of the year’s débutantes whom she sees down-town. Doris knows each débutante’s first name and reputation, and she follows the various affairs of the season as they appear in the society column.
She walks—walks, not runs—haughtily into the room, her head inclined faintly forward, her hips motionless. She speaks always in a bored voice, raising her eyebrows at the important words of each sentence.
Doris. Hello, people.