Then the irresistible Polly Farren voice purred on: “That’s splendid! We’ll send our car for you. It’s not a long run out here, and the car can bring Sheila out at the same time. You can have a little visit together.”
“That would be very nice. Thank you,” Mrs. Winfield babbled.
“One more thing, if I may,” Polly chanted. “Our town car is in New York. It took Sheila in, you know. The driver has nothing at all to do till five. My husband says he would be ever so pleased if you’d let me put it at your disposal. Please call it your very own while you’re in the city, won’t you? The chauffeur is quite reliable, really.”
Poor Mrs. Winfield could only wail, “Hold the wire a moment, please.”
She was unutterably miserable. She dropped the receiver and called her lather-jawed husband in conference. They whispered like two counterfeiters with the police at the door. They could see no way of escape without brutality.
Mrs. Winfield took up the receiver and wailed, “My husband says it is very nice of you and of course we accept.”
“Oh, that’s splendid!” throbbed in her ear. “I’ll telephone the man to call for you at once. Good-by till dinner, then. Good-by.”
Mr. Winfield glared at his wife, and she looked away, sighing:
“She has a right nice voice, anyway.”