"Please don't be cross, Polly. I got brioche because I know you like it so much. I like macaroons myself," and she helped the indignant cubist to a generous slice of his favorite cake and he was mollified.
The party was very gay. Jo proved to be a singularly tactful hostess and put them at their ease immediately. The tea was perfect.
"Where on earth do you get it?" asked Mrs. Brown as she accepted a second cup.
"Smuggle it," responded Jo. "Every time I go to California I bring enough back to run me for a year; enough for Polly, too. The custom house officials never hunt through my luggage for tea. They often remark that I am 'not the tea drinking type', but Polly, here, can't bring in a leaf of it without getting found out. He is a regular tea drinking type."
"Are you from California, too?" asked Molly, smiling at Polly and wondering if Jo's frankness hurt his feelings. But if it did he concealed his wounds remarkably well.
"Yes, indeed, Jo and I are from the same town. I have known her ever since she was a little boy. She is an awful clever sort and as kind and good as can be. I never mind her blague. We are the best friends in the world and she likes me as much as I do her. Have you seen her painting? She does the best and highest paid miniature work among the American artists in Paris. She has a very interesting way of working: paints everything big first and then in miniature. She says it keeps her from getting a sissy manner."
"I can't fancy Miss Williams with a sissy manner in anything," laughed Elise, who joined Molly and Mr. Perkins. "I want to see her things so much; and I do hope you will show us some of your work, Mr. Perkins. I hear you are of the new movement in art."
"Yes," said poor Polly sadly. "Jo hates me for it and refuses to think I am sincere or that there is any good in the movement, but I declare that she is the insincere one in not trying to see the good in the cubist movement. Jo is very hard-headed and conventional at heart, in spite of her pants."
The girls burst out laughing at this. The idea of Jo's being conventional was certainly absurd. Hard-headed she no doubt was.
"This will show you how stubborn she is: she pretends she does not remember my name. I don't mind her calling me Polly, but I do think she should address my letters to Mr. Peter Perkins and not Polly. I have known her ever since we were both of us babies and she must remember what my parents call me, even though she never did call me Peter herself," said the poor cubist who looked ready to weep.