Mr. Duffy always called his wife “the old woman,” but it was simply a term of endearment for she was not really old at all. She was almost as fat as her husband, however, but at the top of her mountainous figure was the most charmingly pretty face imaginable, as pink and white as a wax doll’s and always wrinkling with little smiles which played hide-and-seek among her many dimples. Her eyes were as blue and innocent as an infant’s and her naturally blonde hair, made blonder by artificial means, gave her face a singularly childlike appearance.
“Are you all here?” she cried, giving a funny little elephantine run down the piazza, as they came up the steps. “I do hope no one stayed behind. I wish I had told you to bring more people. Mr. Duffy and I love boys and girls, because we haven’t any of our own, I suppose. If I wasn’t so fat and lazy, I think I should like to be at the head of a big orphan asylum. It would be different from any orphan asylum I have ever seen. The children should have such a good time they would forget they had no parents. The little girls should have pretty dresses,” she rattled on, “and not those hideous dun colored things, and every Saturday they should have a party——”
“You see how my old woman does run on,” laughed Mr. Duffy, winking at the others. “Orphan asylums are her particular fad, but I don’t believe any Methodist Association would engage her if they heard her views first.”
“If they ever do make you a superintendent of an orphan asylum, Mrs. Duffy,” called Billie, on her way up the stairs to leave her scarf and wrap, “you will have your hands full because we shall all join the orphan brigade.”
“Bless you, child, Mr. Duffy and I would be only too glad to make a little asylum just for you all alone if you should ever feel inclined to try it,” returned the warm-hearted soul who had yearned in vain for a little girl of her own.
Mr. and Mrs. Duffy’s winter home was built very much as they were: broad and commodious and of an exceedingly comfortable disposition.
There was plenty of room in the big parlors for dancing; on the broad piazzas were lounging chairs and hammocks, and in the tropical garden, now lighted with Japanese lanterns, settees had been placed in all the prettiest nooks.
Other guests now began to arrive from the neighboring villas, and our Motor Maids soon found themselves at what Nancy called “a real party.”
And, oh, how busy Mrs. Duffy was introducing all the boys and girls! She chose Timothy Peppercorn as her assistant and the incongruous pair kept the couples spinning about the room like so many human tops.
“No one shall ever have a stupid time in my house,” declared the good woman, leading forth young men and maids to the dance like so many sacrificial lambs. But once things got into swing, she had no further trouble except with poor, awkward, shy Georgiana. The young English girl danced a hoppety dance instead of the American glide, and it was difficult to obtain a partner for her a second time. At last Mr. Duffy himself was called into action. With rivers of perspiration pouring down his rotund countenance, like spring freshets down the side of a mountain, he gallantly piloted Georgiana through the mazes of the waltz. But Mr. Duffy had a light and graceful step, in spite of his enormous weight.