“Oh, let’s have a show!” proposed Ruth. “I’ll be—who’ll I be?” she floundered, feeling a little uncertain on her Indian lore.
“Ruth Harrison! That Indian robe is just too darling!” cooed Cara. “And your feathers! I think you girls were mighty smart to think of our midnight frolic.”
“But what a pity the boys couldn’t see us?” sighed Esther, about half-way in earnest.
“The boys—see you! In that butterfly thing with—you got anything under it?” asked Louise, innocently.
“Louise St. Clair!” gasped Esther, pretending to be terribly shocked. “I’d have you know I’m fully garbed,” and she tossed off the pretty robe to display a still lovelier set of blue silk pajamas. Reasonably, Esther was pleased to have so good a chance to display her pretty things, for as Ruth might say “the fairies who see things while we sleep may love them, but they’re awfully quiet about it.”
“Let’s have a march,” proposed Babs. “Cara, you lead and I’ll be the magistrate who is to perform the ceremony.”
This was fun. The girls in the pretty robes were acting as bridesmaids, the Indian Girl was the groom, while Portia in her severe black robe (and the mortar-board cap was actually becoming to Babs) stood judiciously upon a low stool, her book in her hand statuesquely, and her face molded into an appropriate expression of severity.
In turn each of them tried to hum a march, but the time would jumble into a foxtrot or into some other undignified dance time.
“Oh, I know,” exclaimed Lida. “It’s ‘Yes, We Have No Bananas!’ Try that.”
“Bananas!” squealed Louise. “March to that! Why it’s wooden legged! A hop skip and jump. Lida Bent, that’s the one best foxtrot.”