“Yes, I suppose it is,” Molly owned, dimpling happily.
“I don’t say I would,” Lucille repeated. “But goodness only knows what I’d say if he asked me. My, what a lark it would be! But I needn’t worry. He won’t ask me. He won’t ask any of us. But, Ivy Gilbert, I don’t believe but half the girls in Washington would jump at the chance.”
Ivy’s lip curled. She took up her blouse and re-threaded her needle.
“I don’t believe I would really. But it would be supremely exciting to have him ask me. And I’d give my eyes to have a flirtation with Sên King-lo. No girl ever has—and a good few dozens have tried.”
Ivy sewed on in silence.
“Show them to us, do, Ivy,” Molly broke in.
“Too much fag,” the girl replied. “I haven’t the time.”
“Was there a note with them?” Lucille Smith questioned.
“There was not.”
“Ivy,” Molly begged, “tell us. . . . What did you say when you thanked him?”