Margaret was reclining on a divan in her luxurious study, perusing a letter. The room was redolent with the perfume of June roses, and the warm rays of the afternoon sun, filtering through the stained glass windows—now and then obscured by the swaying leaves and branches of the trees—were flitting across her lovely form as if playing hide and seek.
Suddenly the door burst open and Aurora, somewhat flushed, holding in her hand a note, entered the room, exclaiming excitedly:
“Horrible! Margie, horrible! I do not know what to do! It will be extremely h’embawassing aw, don’t you know.”
“What is it Aurora, is that Jewsky after you again?”[1] asked Margaret with a rougish smile, glancing toward her chum.
“I do not think he is a ’Ebrew, my dear, his signature aw, is some foreign sounding name. Carlos Do-Do-Do-Don Seville.”
“Well, I don’t care what he is. The dodo is an extinct bird you know. He looks like a Jewsky anyway. The idea, pray what has he to say?” questioned Margaret, contracting her eyebrows to a frown.
“He writes that he will grace aw, our moonlight reception with ’is presence. Horrid, Margie, horrid! I hate him!”
“Fiddlesticks! Rats!” retorted Margaret. “It is up to us then. If he bobs up tomorrow night at the show, there will be something doing. That Dago is positively the limit. He is perfectly horrid. If I see him ogling me once that night, I’ll ‘cut the chains of my tongue loose’ at him, the wretch!”
“Is the Jewski After You Again?”