Well, that's as far as I gets, for there's Vee, sittin' behind the silver tea-urn, all dolled up; and Leon, in his black coat, holdin' a plate of dinky little cakes; and a couple of strange ladies starin' at me button-eyed. I'd crashed right into the midst of tea and callers.
Do I pull some easy johndrew lines and exit graceful? Not me. My feet was glued to the rug.
"Beans!" says I, grinnin' simple and danglin' the specimens. "Perfectly good string——"
Then I catches the eye of the stiff-necked dame with the straight nose and the gun-metal hair. No, both eyes, it was; and a cold, suspicious, stabby look is what they shoots my way. No wonder I chokes off the feeble-minded remarks and turns sort of panicky to Vee, half expectin' to find her blushin' painful or signalin' me to clear out. Nothing like that from Vee, though.
"Not ours, Torchy?" says she, slidin' out from behind the tea-table and rushin' over. "Not our very own?"
"Uh-huh!" says I. "Just picked 'em."
At which the other caller joins in unexpected.
"From your own garden?" says she. "How interesting! Oh, do show them to me."
"Why, sure," says I. "Guess we're doin' our bit, ain't we?"
She's a wide, dumpy-built old girl, and dressed sort of freaky. Also her line of talk is a kind of purry, throaty gush that's almost too soothin' to be true. But anybody who makes only half a bluff at being interested in our garden wins us. And not until she's inspected our first string-beans through her gold lorgnette, and remarked twice more how wonderful it was for us to raise anything like that, does it occur to Vee to introduce me proper to both ladies.