CHAPTER XIV
A HONEYSUCKLE SECRET
“I don’t see why not,” panted Mrs. Smalley to Mrs. Brownell. She was holding in her trembling hands the huge glass case of waxed passion flowers, and every time the case shook even a little in her trembling hands, the flowers would shed a few hunks of wax. It was so very old, you see, and wax is wax.
“The reason why I don’t wish anything placed upon our table,” replied the elegant Mrs. Brownell, using all her social powers in an effort to appear polite, “is because of the exquisite grain of the wood. Just look at that,” she begged the excited Mrs. Smalley.
“Yes, I see,” said Mrs. Smalley blindly, for she couldn’t have seen over that glass case, and besides, she wasn’t looking that way. “But they are both of the same period,” she pointed out as if she knew.
“Same period!” gasped Mrs. Brownell. “Why!” She pronounced that “why” as if it were composed of two syllables—“why-eeh!” And then she could hardly speak from sheer disdain. “Our table,” she continued to orate, “is of the very early American period, but you know, dear Mrs. Smalley, wax flowers are not even classified.”
“What did I tell you?” said Babs to Cara. “Here’s the fight we were hoping for, right upon our heads. Ruth,” she called ever so lightly, for Ruth was actually staring at the women with unhidden glee. “Ruth, will you please—do something!”
“What,” drawled Ruth, her mouth staying open as if she hated to miss anything by closing it. “What can I do, Babs?” she finally managed to ask, still watching the women.
“You can grab a few things from the ladies as they enter,” Babs suggested. She too was having a good time, for the table-wax-flower dispute was still going strong.
“They’re actually taking sides,” Cara chuckled. “There are three with Mrs. Smalley and four with Mrs. Brownell. Babs, you can’t expect us to work while this is going on.”
“I don’t, I know better. But here comes another glass case. Looks like somebody’s dead head of hair tangled up into snarls they call flowers.”