"Was it?" says I, and I notices both Vee and Marjorie gazin' at me int'rested.
"Of course," says Gladys, prattlin' on, "we quarreled all the way up; but it was all his fault, and he—oh, phsaw! Here come my dear parents."
Takin' Gladys as a sample, you'd never guessed it; for Mother is a quiet, modest appearin' little party, with her wavy brown hair parted in the middle and brushed back low. She's wearin' her own complexion too, and, while she's dressed more or less neat and stylish, she don't sport ear danglers, or anything like that. With Father in the background she comes sailin' up smilin', and it ain't until she gets a peek under the mush-bowl lid that her expression changes.
"Why, Gladys!" she gasps.
"Now, Mummah!" protests Gladys peevish. "For goodness sake don't begin—anyway, not here!"
"But—but, my dear!" goes on Mother, starin' at her shocked. "That—that hat! And your hair! And—and your face!"
"Oh, bother!" says Gladys, stampin' her high-heeled pump. "You'd like to have me dress like Cousin Tilly, I suppose?"
"But you know I asked you not to—to have that done to your hair again," says Mother.
"And I said I would, so there!" says Gladys emphatic.
Mother sighs and turns to Father, who is makin' his inspection with a weary look on his face. He's just an average, stout-built, good-natured lookin' duck, Father is, a little bald in front, and just now he's rubbin' the bald spot sort of aimless.