Cornelia plainly enjoyed the sensation her blank refusal created. But her elation subsided when she caught a glimpse of Mazie and Claude in a stealthy interchange of grimaces.
"Do nothing," she replied tartly. "Or ask Mazie. She'd make a capital gypsy with her dark hair and velvet paws. And she could eke out her fortune-telling with her monkeyshines."
"Thanks, old girl. But I'll take Claude's tip and go as Salome, and I'll dance my feet off just to tantalize you. If the boys want me to, I'll do the dance of the seven veils for them."
"All seven?" asked Claude, affecting an air of seasoned rakishness.
"All but the seventh will be one too many if Big Burley is present," said Cornelia.
"Just so, Cornelia," said Claude. "A good reason for you to come and see that Mazie behaves herself. And that Big Burley does likewise. As the Gypsy Queen you may be able to keep him in order by predicting dire disasters for him. For he's a regular old screen villain: he fears nothing but the fictitious."
"Lothario, in the present state of my own fortunes, I'm not keen to tell other people their fortunes."
"Oh, but come anyhow. If not as a gypsy, then as a ballet dancer or a columbine. Or anything else that takes your fancy. We won't let you stay at home, so get that out of your head."
"Silly boy," said Cornelia, with a prolonged, musical laugh. "A ballet dancer's dress calls for the most cast iron of corsets. Do you see me putting on those abominations? No. Not even for love of you, dear."
She was fond of drawing to the attention of her men friends the fact that a corset was an article she rigorously abjured.