“Thanks. I seldom drink a cocktail, and one is always my limit,” Shirley replied smilingly.
“Oh, well,” the Colonel retorted agreeably, “we'll make it a three-cornered festival. Poundstone, smoke up.”
They “smoked up,” and Poundstone prayed to his rather nebulous gods that Mrs. P. would not discuss automobiles during the dinner.
Alas! The Colonel's cocktails were not unduly fortified, but for all that, the two which Mrs. Poundstone had assimilated contained just sufficient “kick” to loosen the lady's tongue without thickening it. Consequently, about the time the piece de resistance made its appearance, she threw caution to the winds and adverted to the subject closest to her heart.
“I was telling Henry as we came up the walk how greatly I envied you that beautiful sedan, Miss Sumner,” she gushed. “Isn't it a perfectly stunning car?”
Poundstone made one futile attempt to head her off. “And I was telling Mrs. Poundstone,” he struck in with a pathetic attempt to appear humorous and condescending, “that a little jitney was our gait, and that she might as well abandon her passionate yearning for a closed car. Angelina, my dear, something tells me I'm going to enjoy this dinner a whole lot more if you'll just make up your mind to be real nice and resign yourself to the inevitable.”
“Never, my dear, never.” She shook a coy finger at him. “You dear old tightie,” she cooed, “you don't realize what a closed car means to a woman.” She turned to Shirley. “How an open car does blow one around, my dear!”
“Yes, indeed,” said Shirley innocently.
“Heard the McKinnon people had a man killed up in their woods yesterday, Colonel,” Poundstone remarked, hoping against hope to divert the conversation.
“Yes. The fellow's own fault,” Pennington replied. “He was one of those employees who held to the opinion that every man is the captain of his own soul and the sole proprietor of his own body—hence that it behooved him to look after both, in view of the high cost of safety-appliances. He was warned that the logging-cable was weak at that old splice and liable to pull out of the becket—and sure enough it did. The free end of the cable snapped back like a whip, and—”