With deft fingers he secured the stray locks which were escaping, working as skilfully as a hair-dresser.
"Oh, but you're a nuisance," she told him, as she accepted his aid with the fidgety impatience of a restless boy. "They'll pop right out again."
"They wouldn't if you didn't jerk and flirt around—"
"Flirt, indeed! Bunny! Bunny! What an idea!" She kissed him with a resounding smack, squarely upon the end of his thin nose, then flounced over to the old-fashioned haircloth sofa.
Now, Mr. Dreux abhorred the name of Bunny, and above all things he abominated Myra Nell's method of saluting him upon the nose, but she only laughed at his exclamation of disgust, saying:
"Well, well! You haven't told me how nice I look."
"There is no possible hope for him," he acknowledged. "The gown fits very nicely, too."
"Chloe did it—she cut it off, and sewed on the doodads—"
"The what?"
"The ruffly things." Myra Nell sighed. "It's hard to make a dressmaker out of a cook. Her soul never rises above fried chicken and light bread, but she did pretty well this time, almost as well as—Do you know, Bunny, you'd have made a dandy dressmaker."