Mrs. Helen Davies sat beneath the statue of Minerva presenting wisdom to the world, and arranged the folds of her gown to the most graceful advantage.
“You shouldn’t expect her on time, coming from Lucile’s,” she observed, with a smile of proper pride. She was immensely fond of her daughter Lucile; but she preferred to live with her sister. “I have a brilliant idea, Grace. I’ll telephone,” and without seeming to exert herself in the least, she glided from her picturesque high-backed flemish chair, and sat at the library table, and drew the phone to her, and secured her daughter’s number.
“Hello, Lucile,” she called, in the most friendly of tones. “You’d better send Gail home, before your Aunt Grace develops wrinkles.”
“Gail isn’t here,” reported Lucile triumphantly. “She dropped in, two hours ago, and dropped right out, without waiting for her tea. You’d never guess with whom she’s driving! Edward E. Allison! He’s the richest bachelor in New York!”
Mrs. Helen Davies turned to her anxious sister with a sparkle in her black eyes.
“It’s all right, Grace,” and then she turned eagerly to the phone. “Did he come in?”
“They were in too big a rush,” jabbered Lucile excitedly. “He doesn’t look old at all. Arly and I watched them drive away. They seemed to be great chums. Gail got him at Uncle Jim’s vestry. Doesn’t she look stunning in red!”
“Where is she?” interrupted Mrs. Sargent, holding her thumb.
“Out driving,” reported sister Helen. “Have you sent your invitations for the house-party, Lucile?” and she discussed that important subject until Mrs. Sargent’s thumb ached.
“With whom is Gail driving, and where?” asked sister Grace, anxious for detail.