“Sorry,” replied her sister, “but you know I can’t eat them. They make me disgustingly sick.”
“You’ve got to eat them,” cried Dolly. “If you don’t, they’ll be served up at the next party.”
The thought threw them into agonising spasms of mirth. Oh, this was wonderful . . . priceless . . . mervellus . . . the very best ever! They really expected to expire . . .
“Slip them back on the table,” commanded Mona, as she saw Marjorie approaching.
“Not a minute too soon,” whispered Dolly. “Now then, girls, your best Augusta Evans smile . . .”
“Have you had tea?” asked Marjorie, finding something about their hilarity that was as incomprehensible as the sombreness of the other groups who appeared to be too bored for words. She had little time for reflection, but there flashed through her mind a comparison between this and a tea in Pinto Plains, where a friendly atmosphere was inter-penetrating and a hostess wasn’t ignored by her guests.
They turned to her with the insolence of people who felt they had graced her home by their presence. Mona Carmichael answering for her friends, replied, “Quarts . . . thanks.”
As that seemed to be productive of no further conversation, Marjorie moved away, suddenly conscious that there was a slight commotion at the door. A late guest was arriving. To her amazement, she recognised Mrs. Augustus Pratt, coarctated in a sapphire velvet, whose fashionable slit skirt revealed a length of limb that fascinated, while it unutterably shocked her.
“Mrs. Pratt,” confided the lady to Hawkins.
“Parding?”