"Well, I don't get it," she rapped on. "Maybe I'm English. Where's the joke?"
"A—a dance over at the Central Palace, given for Worthy Working Girls—"
"That's funnier! But go ahead. Snap into it! Don't let it drag—don't let it drag—"
It seemed a potent cure.
"I went because I saw in the paper that Mrs. Schuyler Driggs was going to be among the patronesses to receive."
The hysterical giggle was gone from Cecille's voice. She shut tight her teeth and raised her chin. Felicity felt that it was safe now to remain silent. And she was right, partly right. She only failed to realize that Cecille was all too calm.
"I'm sorry, Felicity," the latter apologized meekly. "But I couldn't help it. I thought I'd laugh and cry and scream, right on the street, before I could get here. But I held on. Shall I finish?"
"Mrs. Schuyler Driggs has just made her entrance—"
"Yes. She was in the shop this morning." The recital seemed simple and orderly now. "I helped to fit her. I usually do. She's never very cordial, but this morning she was—oh, she was a beast! She nagged and nagged and nagged, until I got nervous. I couldn't help it. I got worse and worse, until I stuck a pin into her. Not just a scratch." The gurgle threatened. "But deep—deep!"
"If you go off again," promised Felicity, "I'll dump that pitcher of water over you."