"I don't get on to what you're after, Miss what-ever-your name is, but you're in the wrong pew. I never knew a Miss Gray that I can remember and I guess somebody's been kidding you."
Pat suddenly found her tongue—in the nick of time, too, for a paralysis of fright had finished poor Gyp.
"We must have made a mistake, Mr. Stratman. We are very sorry to have bothered you. We are in search of a certain—party that—that has—a white streak—in his hair."
"O-ho," the undertaker clapped his hand to his head. "So that's the ticket, hey? Well, I've always said I couldn't get away from much with that thing always there to identify me—but I never calculated it'd expose me to any proposals!" He laughed again—doubling up in what Pat thought a disgustingly ungraceful way. She held her head high and pushed Gyp toward the door. "We will say good-by," she concluded haughtily.
"Say, kids, who are you, anyway?" His tone was quite unprofessional.
"It is not necessary to divulge our identity," and with Gyp's arm firmly in her grasp Pat beat a hasty retreat. Safe outside in the corridor they fell into one another's arms, torn between tears and laughter.
With mingled disgust and disappointment the Ravens decided then and there to let love follow its own blind, mistaken course.
"Miss Gray can die an old maid before I'll ever face another creature like that!" vowed Gyp, and Pat echoed her words.
"No one ever gets any thanks for meddling in other people's affairs, anyway," Peggy Lee offered.
"Nice time to tell us that," was Gyp's irritable retort.