They showed a few milk-fed Springers how to take a Joke, and then played an 18-hole Foursome which was more or less of a Grewsome.
Then a little Tea on the Terrace with Herbert lolling by in his
Flannels, just as you read about it in Mrs. Humphrey Ward.
A buzzing sound dying off into the distance, a trail of Blue Smoke in the fading Twilight, and little Bright Eyes is back in her own Boudoir packing herself into a new set of Glads.
That evening she had four throbbing Roscoes curled up among her Sofa
Pillows.
She had to bat up short and easy ones for this Bunch, as they came from the Wholesale District.
When they began to distribute political Bromides, the artful Minx sat clear out on the edge of the Chair and let on to be simply pop-eyed with Ardor.
Shortly after 12 she turned the last night-blooming Cyril out into the
Darkness and did a graceful Pirouet to the Husks.
On Wednesday morning, between the Ham and Eggs, she glanced at her double-entry Date Book and began to gyrate.
On the way down-town she stopped in and had herself measured for a new mop of hair.
Thence to the Beauty Works to have the peerless Frontispiece ironed out and the Nails ivoried.