“There, I feel better now!” said Alexia, releasing her and panting; “we haven’t had such a spin since we were girls together. And to think of us two old things. Oh, dear, I’ve lost all my hairpins!” She put up one hand to her head, while she sank to the floor, and groped with the other under the chairs and the table.
“I think we sha’n’t get this list done very quickly,” observed Mrs. Fargo, writing away.
“Oh, misery me! Well, what can I do?” wailed Alexia, sitting on the floor, her bright eyes searching the carpet; “here’s one—that’s good, and that’s another,” pouncing on them; “there, I’ll let the others be, and pick ’em up afterward. Here goes;” and pinning up her hair as best she could, she rushed into her seat, to send her pen scratching wildly over Polly’s notes.
“Anybody would know who wrote that,” she said, viewing the first one with great disfavor. “Dear me, I wish I could write like you, Mrs. Fargo.”
“I write plainly,” said Mrs. Fargo, well pleased at the compliment; “and that’s all I can say, Alexia.”
“Dear, dear! do talk,” presently cried Alexia, “or I shall begin again on the old subject. Oh, good! here’s Ben,” as he came in.
“Writing Polly’s notes?” he asked, his eyes lighting up in a pleased way.
“Yes,” said Alexia, as usual answering first; “and there are such a lot of them—Mrs. Coyle Campbell’s luncheon next week to get out of. I’m just finishing that, and a hundred other engagements, and all sorts of things. Go on and talk, Ben, do, about something. I’m in a bad temper enough, and I want to be amused, or I shall spoil half of these.”
“What is the matter?” asked Ben leisurely, and sitting down to laugh at her. “Well, I only wish there was anything I could do to help. But I’ve been wandering the house over, and there isn’t a thing I’m fit for.”
“How’s Charlotte Chatterton?” asked Alexia suddenly; “seems to me we don’t hear much from her lately. I suppose you’ll all find her abroad.”