Gladys laughed merrily.
"Your pardon, dear! But I really can't help it—the idea of you and Overton's bull sprinting it across the field! It's too ridiculous. And you won, dear, you won!" She laughed again. "All the bull could do was to stand at the fence and look."
"If he had any sense of propriety he didn't look," Stephanie remarked—"especially when I was going over. I must have resembled a Broadway beauty chorus."
"And no one but the bull on the ball-headed row!" Gladys bubbled.
"Possibly—I was in too much haste to observe whether Mr. Porshinger saw or not."
"Porshinger!" cried Gladys. "Porshinger! What in Heaven's name was he doing in Overton's pasture?"
"Walking with me!" was the demure reply.
"Walking with you!—Stephanie Lorraine, will you explain yourself?"
"Sure!" said Stephanie, and explained.
At the end, Gladys selected a tiny gold-tipped cigarette from the case on the dressing table and carefully lighted it.