“It’s not according to the rules.”
“Oh, yes, as they play at Oxford college. They always count ten for the King Maj.”
Great argument ensued. It was decidedly technical; also inclined to be heated. Mame’s companion, who seemed to follow it with amusement mingled with a little good-natured scorn, gently observed: “These young modern flappers are really dreadful.” And then she proceeded to attract their attention.
It was not a judicious action.
“Hulloa, Vi!” cried the flappers. They rose as one, and like a pair of excited young colts came gambolling about Mame’s table.
For all their rather riotous volubility they had a natural attractiveness. Also there was a strong facial likeness which led Mame to think these high-spirited creatures must be sisters of her friend.
The assumption was correct.
“This is sister Marjorie,” said the girl, shooting a good-humoured finger at Miss Spectacles. “And this is sister Doris. The light and the joy of our home.”
Both flappers ceased their prattle for a moment to look shrewdly at Mame and to bow quite nicely. Then, as their elders did not seem inclined to pay them much attention, they suddenly returned to their argument.
“Vi knows the rules of the Beaver game. Vi knows everything.”