We’re all circumbendibus,
We’re all going round.”
She had punctuated the chorus with a series of jerked steps, her high heels striking the wooden floor in a kind of castanet accompaniment. Every waiting man had risen to his feet as she came upon them in that post-office section, and she had answered their rising with a military salute.
In the great mirror that ran from floor to ceiling of the store, she had caught a glimpse of herself. She recalled, even now, exactly what she was wearing that evening—a white muslin frock, a very wide sash of rich silk—crushed strawberry colour—about her waist, the long ends of the sash floating behind her almost to the high heels of her dainty bronze shoes. A knot of the same-hued ribbon, narrow, of course, with streamers flying, was fastened at her left shoulder. Her wide-brimmed hat was trimmed with the same colour. She had known that she made a handsome picture before she read the light of admiration in the eyes of the post-office loungers.
“Have you heard the news, boys?” she asked.
“Aw, guess we hev, Miss Madge.”
It was Ulysses Fletcher who had acted as spokesman.
In some surprise, and not altogether pleased, she had wheeled sharply round to the lantern-jawed Ulysses and asked,
“How did you hear the news, Ulysses? Dad didn’t tell you, I’m sure, for he promised me I should tell you all myself.”
“Met a coon down to the depot, an’ I guess he wur chuck full o’ it, an’ ’e ups an’ tells me.”