Presently Ilse called her: “It’s Mr. Shotwell, dear.”
Palla came into the room and picked up the receiver:
“Yes? Oh, good evening, Jim! Yes.... Yes, I am going out with Ilse.... Why, no, I had no engagement with you, Jim! I’m sorry, but I didn’t understand––No; I had no idea that you expected to see me––wait a moment, please!”––she put one hand over the transmitter, turned to Ilse with flushed cheeks 150 and a shyly interrogative smile: “Shall I ask him to dine with us and go with us?”
“If you choose,” called Ilse, faintly amused.
Then Palla called him: “––Jim! Come to dinner at once. And wear your business clothes.... What?... Yes, your every day clothes.... What?... Why, because I ask you, Jim. Isn’t that a reason?... Thank you.... Yes, come immediately.... Good-bye, de–––”
She coloured crimson, hung up the receiver, and picked up the evening paper, not daring to glance at Ilse.
CHAPTER XI
When Shotwell arrived, dinner had already been announced, and Palla and Ilse Westgard were in the unfurnished drawing-room, the former on a step-ladder, the latter holding that collapsible machine with one hand and Palla’s ankle with the other.
Palla waved a tape-measure in airy salute: “I’m trying to find out how many yards it takes for my curtains,” she explained. But she climbed down and gave him her hand; and they went immediately into the dining-room.