“Well,” said Cosimo Pratt presently, when each had applied his or her adjective to Amory’s appearance, “and how’s Jellies and Mrs. ’Ill, Amory?”
You would not now have known Amory for the same girl who had conversed with Mr. Edmondson on the progress of illustrated journalism and statelily inclined her head when the awful Mr. Wellcome had offered her a liqueur-glass of the famous old Spanish brandy. She gave a low rippling laugh. She snuggled contentedly up against the coal-box.
“What! hasn’t Dorothy told you?” she ejaculated. If Dorothy hadn’t told, that was really rather nice of Dorothy.
“No,” said Cosimo, turning his huge black-coffee-coloured eyes on her, all anticipation.
“Jellies is engaged!” Amory announced, with another low laugh.
Cosimo started dramatically. “No!”
Amory nodded. She could always rely on Cosimo.
“You don’t say so! Oh, do tell me! Do you think——” a short pause, “—he’s worthy of her?”
“Just look at Cosimo’s face!” bubbled Laura Beamish. It bore an expression of the deepest mock gravity.