Aubrey pressed my handkerchief into my hand with a meaning twinkle in his eyes, and when Bee went in to dress, he said:
"It will be rather nice to see old Featherstone again, don't you think?"
"Yes, if we can get him," I answered.
"You poor little goose," said Aubrey, "don't you know they have it all arranged, and that Featherstone won't go beyond earshot of the telephone until he receives your invitation?"
To be sure! I had forgotten Bee's methods.
Of course it turned out as Aubrey predicted—it always does. Captain
Featherstone accepted with suspicious alacrity.
For three days Bee was polite, and I, who am most easily gulled for a person who looks as intelligent as I do, was pluming myself upon the fact that our modest mode of living was proving agreeable to Bee's jaded European palate. I wondered if she had noticed my housekeeping. She had not expressed herself in any way, but I wondered if she had observed how scrupulously neat everything was, that there was no lint on the floors and what bully things we had to eat.
I was the more eager to know what she thought from the fact that most of my friends had not hesitated to say that I couldn't keep house, and the Angel would starve. And once when I wrote home for a recipe for tomato soup and one of the girls heard of it, she actually sent me this insulting telegram: "Tomato soup! You! O Lord!"
Which just shows you.
So, on the third day, on seeing Bee cast a critical look around, I said, unable to wait another minute for the praises I was sure would come: