She got up, and began to draw on her dove-colored Swedish kid gloves.
“Tippie,” she said to Mrs. Chetwinde, “I must go home now and have a little rest.”
Only then did Dion realize how marvelously she was bearing a tremendous strain. He began to admire her prodigiously.
When he said good-by to her under the great porch he couldn’t help asking:
“Are your nerves of steel?”
She leaned forward in the brougham.
“If your muscles are of iron.”
“My muscles!” he said.
“Haven’t you educated them?”
“Oh—yes.”