“But I don’t intend to send her any cards until she writes me first,” answered Dorothy. “She owes me an apology for not writing to me.”
“Same here,” said Nat. “I’ll treat her the same way. The saucy little thing,” he added facetiously, “not to answer our nice long letters. She ought to be slapped.”
Dorothy laughed at her cousin’s good humor. It was better that he should take this view of the case than that he should suspect the real facts. Dorothy glanced at some of the cards as they hurried along back to the hotel.
“Now there’s one,” pointed out Nat, “that would just suit the circumstances. A girl doing a song and a smile—that’s the ‘turn’ Tavia has been doing to you, Doro. We must save that one for her.”
“Yes,” answered Dorothy abstractedly, taking the card in her hand. It was the picture of a girl in chorus costume, and was enscribed with an appropriate verse.
“Don’t you see,” explained Nat, “they’ve got everything down to a post-card basis now. That one is intended to be used in place of making a party call when a gentleman has blown a girl to a theatrical good time. She just sends this card back and that suffices for formal thanks.
“Of course it might not just suit our set,” he conceded, “but for those in the post-card clientele it’s a cinch, as the poet says. I tell you after a while we will be able to carry on all our business correspondence with picture postals and not be under the necessity of writing a word. Great scheme, Nat (patting himself on the left shoulder with his right hand), get a patent on your new post-card.”
They had now reached the hotel. The veranda was deserted as the hour for dinner was almost at hand and the guests were dressing. Nat left Dorothy at the elevator, with a warning to be ready early in the morning. Then he hurried to where he and Ned were staying.
CHAPTER XXI
ADRIFT IN A STRANGE CITY
In spite of Dorothy’s courage, and her efforts to keep each of her troubles apart, that she might meet and cope with them singly, the time had now come when she found herself sorely puzzled.