"When you first came in. Oh, yes—a squirrel." She placed her arm around Flamby and gave her a little hug. "Quite agree; she is a squirrel. You are a country squirrel, dear. Do you mind?"
"Of course not," said Flamby, laughing. "You couldn't pay me a nicer compliment."
"No," replied Mrs. Chumley, lapsing into thoughtful mood. "I suppose I couldn't. Squirrels are very pretty. I am afraid I was never like a squirrel. How many inches are you round the waist?"
"I don't know. About twenty," replied Flamby, suddenly stricken with shyness; "but I'm only little."
"Are you little, dear? I should not have called you little. You are taller than I am."
Since Mrs. Chumley was far from tall, the criterion was peculiar, but Flamby accepted it without demur. "I'm wearing high heels," she said. "I am no taller than you, really."
"I should have thought you were, dear. I am glad you wear high heels. They are so smart. It's a mistake to wear low heels. Men hate them. Don't you think men hate them, Don?"
"The consensus of modern masculine opinion probably admits distaste for flat-heeled womanhood, in spite of classic tradition."
"Dear me, that might be Paul Mario. Do you like Paul Mario, dear?"—turning again to Flamby and repeating the little hug.
Flamby lowered her head quickly. "Yes," she replied.