"Hello, Iola, I was coming down today but it's too moistuous."
Then Iola's voice, sort of groaning:
"Oh, Molly, is that you? I do wish it had been fine and you'd have come."
"Why—anything wrong?"
"Oh, yes, everything. Miss Whitehall isn't back yet, and Mr. Ford's hardly been in at all and has such a gloom on him you wouldn't know him, and I'm awful discouraged."
"Have you tried to see Miss Whitehall?"
"No, I can't seem to get up enough spunk."
"Why don't you phone her?"
"Well, I don't know, I'm sort of scared of what I'll hear. I thought I'd better sit around and wait, and then I thought I ought to find out, and between the two—Oh, dear, what's the use!"
That was just like Iola. The only way you can be sure she's got a mind at all is the trouble she has making it up. If it's true that men like the helpless kind she ought to have a string of lovers as long as the line at the box office when Caruso sings Pagliacci. I wonder I ever got married!