"Why not me?" I says.
"All alone?" says she.
Well, I didn't know where it would land me, but I wa'n't goin' to have her tag me for a solitaire spender.
"Not much," says I. "I was just makin' up my list. How do you spell Mrs. Twombley-Crane's last name—with a k?"
"Really!" says she. "Do you mean to say that she is to be one of your guests? Then you must be going just where I'd planned to go—to the Newport evolutions?"
"Sure thing," says I. I'd heard of their havin' all kinds of fool doin's at Newport, but evolutions wa'n't one of 'em. The bluff had to be made good, though.
The lady pushes up her mosquito nettin' drop, like she wanted to see if I was unwindin' the string ball or not, and then for a minute she taps her chin with them foldin' eyeglasses. I wanted to sing out to her that she'd dent the enamel if she didn't quit bein' so careless, but I held in. Say, what's the use eatin' carrots and takin' buttermilk baths, when you can have a mercerized complexion like that laid on at the shop?
All of a sudden she flashes up a little silver case, and pushes out a visitin' card.
"There's my name and address," says she. "If you should change your mind about using The Toreador, you may telephone me; and I hope you will."
"Oh!" says I, spellin' out the old English letters. "I've heard Pinckney speak of you. Well, say, seein' as you're so anxious, I'll tell you what I'll do; I'll just put you down for an in-vite. How does that hit you?"