“In love? Up to my ankles! Oh, yes.” Edna blithely chuckled.
“Up to your topnot!” her sister returned, making as if to pull it.
But with the butt end of the curling-tongs, Edna waved her away.
Since her visit to the Villa Alba “me, an’ Misteh Ruiz” was all her talk, and to be his reigning mistress the summit of her dreams.
“Come on man wid dose tongs; ’cos I want ’em myself,” Miami murmured, pinning a knot of the sweet Night Jasmyn deftly above her ear.
Its aroma evoked Bamboo.
Oh, why had he not joined her? Why did he delay? Had he forgotten their delight among the trees, the giant silk-cotton-trees, with the hammer-tree-frogs chanting in the dark: Rig-a-jig-jig, rig-a-jig-jig?
“Which you like de best man, dis lil necklash or de odder?” Edna asked, essaying a strand of orchid tinted beads about her throat.
“I’d wear dem both,” her sister advised.