"Joan!"
"She did," insisted Joan. "Well, then, Peggy, I just stayed awake that night and thought it all out. Peggy, do all painters' wives smoke? I mean—" she flushed and stammered.
Peggy's eyes were demure and roguish.
"You ridiculous child!" she said. "Who's the painter?"
Joan turned scarlet and bit her lip.
"And what, sweetheart," begged Peggy with ready tact, "did you think out?"
"If you smoke," said Joan, "because you really want to, Peggy, it's all right. But if a girl smokes just to—to appear startling and make men look at her, then it's all wrong!"
Peggy kissed her.
"Joan, dear," she said, "you've the most amazing intelligence in that small head that I ever met. Hum. If I'm not mistaken that's Kenny at the door. He never stops ringing until he's sure you know he's there."
Joan raced away to change her dress.