"Oh, she don't calculate to dress any. She just slumps along anyhow up in these mountains, I judge. I never was much on the apple-cheeked, yalla-haired sort—British gells are too beefy for my taste—else she's pretty enough, and, my! don't her eyes snap; nights, when she kind of fancies herself!"
"And thinks she can play bridge, and tries to strum on the piano," added Dorris viciously.
"Were our fair friend the subject of masculine comment," observed Mr. Welbourne impressively, "the verdict would, I venture to predict, be one of whole-hearted admiration on every count."
"Thank you," sighed Ermengarde in her corner, whence she dared not try to escape.
"Oh, a man's woman is pretty much the same as a lady's man," Dorris gurgled, "so they say."
"You may stake your pile on that, Miss Boundrish," the American corroborated.
"And you don't suppose that hair of hers is all grown on the premises," continued Dorris acidly.
"Whatever you suppose, I've seen it brushed out," Agatha retorted—"lovely hair, like floss-silk."
"At any rate, no hair could be that colour naturally, and it gets brighter every day—thanks to the climate, I suppose. The Monte Carlo yellows are famous, you know——"
"Cat!" murmured Ermengarde. "How I should enjoy the twisting of yours!"