“You’ve tackled the universe,” came from Cunningham. “Fifty years ago it could have been summed up in one beautiful word, ‘Submission’. To-day—” He flung up his hands.
Nancy smiled. “And you’re just the type a submissive woman would bore to death.”
“Don’t you believe it,” chimed in Lilla. “He’s apt to fall for some baby doll who’ll tell him what a great big wonderful man he is and do exactly what he wants—when he’s around.”
“You don’t subscribe to the fifty-fifty theory then, old man?” suggested Thorne when the laugh died down.
“No, I believe in ninety-nine-one. At least women can make it that if they know how to handle us. Just as Miss Grant says, we’re nothing but a bunch of boobs.”
“That’s what you like to make us think,” Nancy corrected. “And the unfortunate part of it is, we want to deceive ourselves just as much as you want to deceive us.”
Cunningham blew a ring of feathery cigarette smoke and studied her through it. “I didn’t know you were such a cynic.”
“Did you think dealing with theatrical managers had taught me nothing?” she laughed.
At twelve Mrs. Bishop bubbled in commandeering a group of light-voiced women and husky-voiced men.
She apologized for being late and wailed at the length of Russian Opera.