Chrystie's glance was diverted from the cornice, wide open and astonished.
"A party here, in this house?"
"Yes, it's big enough. There's plenty of room and we can afford it."
"But, Lorry"—the proposition was so startling that she could hardly believe it—"a real party?"
"Any kind of a party you want. We might have several. We could begin with a dinner; Fong can cook anything."
Chrystie, the idea accepted and held in dazzled contemplation, suddenly saw a flaw.
"But where would we get any men?"
"We know some and we could find some more."
"You talk as if you could find them scattered about on the ground the way they found nuggets in '49. Let's count our nuggets." She held up the spread fingers of a large white hand, bending one down with each name. "There's Charlie Crowder if he can get off, and his friend Robinson in the express company, and Roy Barlow, whom I know so well I could recite him in my sleep, and Mrs. Kirkham's grandnephew who looks like a child—and—and—good gracious, Lorry, is that all our nuggets?"
"We could have some of those young men whose mothers knew ours."