“No? Try it on this.”
“Diet for Miss D. Cole,” was typed across the top of a meager-looking list of edibles and what that young lady would have considered inedibles, which she found herself conning.
“Is that all?” she inquired dismally.
“Take as much as yah want of it,” returned Mr. Dunne generously.
“But—I mean—it doesn’t look very nice.”
“The Big Feller trained on it,” observed the other with an air of finality. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Why—why—it’s—well—monotonous,” explained the girl. “There isn’t a sweet thing in it. No cakes. No desserts. Not even ice-cream. Why can’t I have a little sweets?”
“Because,” answered Mr. Dunne, “yah got creases in your stomach.”
Darcy started. “No! Have I?” she asked, vaguely alarmed as to what profound digestive catastrophe that might portend.
“Well, haven’t yah? About there—and there—and prob’ly there.” Mr. Dunne drew an illustrative and stubby forefinger thrice vertically across his own flat abdomen. “Look to-night and yah’ll see ’em.”