"You will," he said, earnestly, "you will! Corporal punishment?—My God,—capital!"
"Farewell, old camel," Dolores called, kindly, after his retreating figure. "Go with God!"
"Michael Daragh," I whispered, when we at last were packed into the taxi, "couldn't we stop at some school on the way home and leave her?"
"Not in those clothes, woman dear,—not with those animals."
"Cuidado, Hombrón!" said my dewy-eyed dove. "If you seek to turn from me the heart of my virgin mother (she pronounces it veergeen mawther), I will not let her marry with you, and you will be old sour face soltero, and she will dress the saints! But," she went on indulgently, "if you are good to me, I am good to you! See,—I kiss up to God!"—and she wafted a heavily scented kiss toward the ceiling of the taxicab.
Desperately,
Jane.
Wednesday.
Well, Sally, mia, life looks a bit more rosy! I've separated Dolores from her cigarette, from her furry coat of powder, from her athletic perfume, from her circus clothes, and to-day, in spite of her incredible size (the inches and pounds she has acquired in six months!) the years have fallen from her. In a slim, brown tricotine with a wide, untrimmed hat of silky brown straw her loveliness has come back, and with it my enthusiasm.