"You're popularly credited with having had a hand in it, not to say a face."
"Don't be coarse, Bobs. What right had Bess Vandegrift to be sticking her blotchy face between the curtains——"
"What right had you to be kissing Bess's best young feller?"
"Liar yourself, Bobs! I didn't kiss him. He kissed me."
"It's a fine distinction. Maybe a shade too fine for Bess."
"I haven't kissed a man," declared Pat virtuously, "that is to say really kissed, since—well, never mind that," with hasty but belated discretion. "I didn't want Harry to kiss me. Troo-woo-wooly, Bobs. Though I did suspect that he might get interesting and try.... She's a sob, anyway."
"Then, there's Stanley Johnston——"
"All off. Tackles too hard!" said Pat.
"And Mark Denby. You keep him rushing back and forth between here and Baltimore like a demented drummer."