“Yes’m! More boys!” chuckled Tavia. “It is June. The bridal-wreath is in bloom. If ‘In spring the young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love,’ can’t our girls’ fancies turn in June to thoughts of white lace veils, shoes that pinch your feet horribly—and can’t we dream of hobbling up to the altar to the sound of Mendelssohn’s march?”
“Hobble to the haltar, you mean,” sniffed Dorothy, with her best suffragette air.
“How smart!” crowed her chum. “But you mustn’t blame me for giggling this morning—you mustn’t!”
“Why not? What particular excuse have you?”
“That shad we had for breakfast. Shad is as full of bones as Cologne’s shoes are of feet. I always manage to swallow some of them—the bones, I mean, not dear Florida Water—Rosemary’s tootsies—and those said bones are tickling me right now.”
“How absurd,” said Dorothy Dale, as Tavia went off in another “spasm.” “Do you realize that you are growing up, Tavia—or, pretty near?”
“‘Pretty near,’ or ‘near pretty’?” asked Tavia, making a little face at her.
“Baiting your hook for a compliment, I see,” laughed Dorothy. “Well, you get none, Miss. I want you to behave. Think!”
Tavia immediately struck an attitude that seemed possible for only a jointed doll to get into. “Business of thinking,” she said.
“Suppose anybody should see you?” pursued Dorothy, admonishingly.