"Then she is nuts about him."
"I don't know. You never can tell with Con. But I know this; Bobs is worried."
"Poor old Bobs! He has his troubles with us. But I don't see that this Scott party is any Francis X. Bushman, the male beauty-spot of the movie screen. How does he work his little game?"
Dee tossed the repaired glove into the basket and regarded her sister. "Why all the eager questions, sweetie?"
"Don't be nawsty, pettah," retorted Pat, who well knew what "sweetie" in that tone meant. "I'm awsking you."
"Not thinking of organising a rescue party, are you?"
"I might at that."
"A fat chance you'd have against Con. Why, he'd chuck you under the chin and tell you to run away to your crib."
"Then I'd put up my innocent, childish lips and ask him to say nighty-nighty nicey-nicey."
"Yes; you're pretty good at that innocent, childish lips stuff," remarked Dee placidly. "About time you were outgrowing it, I'd say."