“Dead head of hair!” gasped Louise.
“Yes. Don’t you know they used to make flowers out of the hair of the dear, dead departed?” Babs continued, chuckling.
“Horrors!” exclaimed Louise.
“Exactly. And this is going to be a horrible show. Oh, Mrs. Dickerson,” Babs chirped gaily to the latest arrival in the glass case department, “what a perfectly beautiful case of flowers!” and she clasped her hands ecstatically. “Do give it to Esther to place for you. Here, Esther,” and the happy lady with the monstrosity turned beamingly upon Esther. So that glass case changed hands promptly.
“You girls are so—so smart,” whined little Mrs. Dickerson, “to take hold so, so fine.” She had a lot of trouble with her adjectives. “We knowed you would. That’s why we picked out Barbara Hale. She’s so, so smart,” declared the flustered lady, casting fond glances upon Esther who was almost petrified with her task of “placing” the hair flowers somewhere “to advantage.”
“How’s the fight coming along?” Cara sidled up to ask Babs.
“Mrs. Brownell may have her table removed if the chairman doesn’t soon arrive. It seems a table is a table, and folks are bound to set things on it,” said Babs, almost laughing outright at the absurdity of the situation.
“Cricky!” exclaimed Cara, using her father’s favorite expletive, “what on earth is this coming?”
“Looks like a portable bath-tub,” replied Babs as Mrs. Ricketts, the fattest woman one could possibly imagine being able to carry anything except fat, puffed up the steps, her arms encircling like a balloon auto tire, a great, big dish.
“My tureen,” she exhaled. “Nothing like this in your collection, I’ll say. It’s been in our family for more than one hundred years. Where can I set it down? It’s awfully heavy!”