“Thanks, Jimmie,—for wanting to give it to me. But you mustn’t—ever do that again. It wouldn’t be right for me to take it.”
And Jimmie had been forced to content himself with flowers and kid gloves and perfume—French stuff at eight-eighty an ounce.
[270]
] That phrase of his, however—“I want to see you in pretty things”—clung to her consciousness. She wanted him to see her in them. She wanted to see herself in them. She wanted those girls to see her in them.
After which the savings bank simply flew to meet her.
“Well,” observed Miss Mallard, still devouring the new costume, “I’m glad you’re learning how to handle him.”
Sallie slipped into her chair.
“May we inspect the dog collar, my deah?” Miss Mallard pursued.
With large indifference Sallie handed over the necklace and watched the blue eyes widen. Not hers to inform the lady that it had been purchased at a near-pearl establishment, guaranteeing that “Our pearls rival the real.”
Miss Mariette fingered it lovingly, even to the tiny barrel of brilliants that formed the clasp. “Atta boy!” she breathed and let fall upon its possessor a look approaching homage.
“Oh, that’s nothing,” Sallie found herself saying, drunk with the dazzle of scoring at last against her enemies, “I’m going to get a car of my own soon.” And promptly wondered how she was going to get it.