“Why!” gasped Polly, horrified. “You talk like a—a—a I don’t know what!”
Eleanor laughed aloud. “That is sacrilege, Dodo. Polly reveres Dalky too much to ever dream of wasting his life by thinking of her for a future bride.”
“Besides, there is Tom Latimer to be reckoned with. If Dalky ever carried out such a plan as I just mentioned, Tom Latimer would have his heart—like Shylock, you know,” giggled Dodo, enjoying Polly’s annoyance and horror.
“But Shylock never got that heart,” added Eleanor. “Neither would Tom get Dalky’s—but such things are out of the question.”
“I should think they were!” snapped Polly. “You girls seem to be beau-crazy, and I have no patience with you—not a bit.” So saying, she walked quickly away by herself.
When the three girls met again it was at luncheon time. Mr. Dalken and Mrs. Courtney were ascending the front steps of the wide verandah, but there were no tell-tale expressions upon the faces of either one. Eleanor searched in vain for the blush that might inform her whether Mrs. Courtney planned to become Mrs. Dalken.
Mrs. Alexander learned that Mrs. Courtney had accompanied the young folks to the swimming pool every morning, and she immediately conjectured that she did this in order to wear a fetching gown and carry her white wrap—white was so becoming to elderly women!
Then she heard that Mr. Dalken had escorted her there, and Mr. Fuzzier had come up out of the water to sit upon the bank and talk with her. This was enough incentive for her to plan how she would take Algy, and walk to the pool in the morning, and show off her lovely white serge gown and suede shoes. She had a flapper-stick which she had used at Colorado Springs, fondly believing herself the envy of all the women. This she would carry the following morning.
She knew better than to breathe a word of her plan to any one else, but directly after breakfast the next morning, she went to her room and began to dress for the parade she had decided upon.
Algy had been commanded to sit and wait for his patroness, and he obeyed just as any good little poodle would do. He sat slowly rocking in a huge, reed, porch chair, vacantly staring at a great stucco pillar of the pergola. Not that there was aught to see upon the pillar, but it served to interest his mind as well as anything.