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Percy Hailey Martingale had read a paper entitled "My Trip to the Panama-Pacific Exposition," after which a dainty collation was served by mine hostess Mrs. Judge Ballard; that Miss Beryl Mae Macomber, the well-known young society heiress, was visiting friends in Spokane where rumour hath it that she would take a course of lessons in elocution; and that Mrs.
"Poor Mae, if she'd opened tonight, they'd have had to give her two weeks' notice or her salary. But they can fire her without a cent just because she's only been rehearsing and hasn't given a show!" The Duchess burst into fresh flood of tears. "Don't you worry, honey!" advised the well-meaning girl, who would have been in her element looking in on Job with Bildad the Shuhite and his friends.
And the red-cheeked vetturino with the flower in his button-hole, whistled a love-song, and thought of his Piametta, I suppose. Meantime, Mae, left to herself, grew penitent and reckless by turns, blushed alternately with shame and with quick pulse-beats, as she remembered Norman Mann's face, or the officer's smile. She wondered where he lived, and whether she would see him soon again. Poor child!
Dusk made the woods almost dark, and lest they should stray too far inland Mae was to give signals on her police whistle. Three short and two long would mean "hurry back." Occasionally they stopped to listen for the call. "Some child has been digging here very recently," insisted Cleo. "This sand and clay are damp yet." "The picnic might have been to-day," Louise replied.
These young women were quite gorgeous in opera cloaks and tiny, nearly invisible, American flags tucked through their belts. They tossed confetti down on every one's heads, and shouted a little over-enthusiastically, but one can pardon even gush if it is only genuine. That was the question in this case. The horse race came; and Mae went fairly wild.
I'm going to recite him." "Hear! Hear!" ordered Captain Mae. "I'm not sure I can recall all of it, but it's a pretty story so " "Yes, Margy, a story is better than a song, tell it," begged Louise, settling down deeper in the leather cushions. "But I may have to hum it, to get in rhyme," soliloquized the narrator. "Yes, that's better still," cut in Cleo. "Give us the hum."
Mann, this is utterly absurd, and more. I am not a child, and if I catch an idly flung bouquet that holds idle secrets, I surely have a right to them." She laughed hurriedly. "Come, give me my note, some Italian babble, I dare say." Norman looked at her for a minute with a struggle in his heart and a flash of half scorn, Mae thought, on his face. What was he thinking?
I always take too much of every thing at a party, from flirtation to O, Mae, you needn't look so sad. I'm not the one in disgrace now. Mrs. Jerrold, Edith and Albert are just piping mad at you, and as for Mann, here, by the way," and Eric rubbed his forehead, as if trying to sharpen up a still sleepy memory, "I suppose you two have had it out by this time.
The man smiled more pleased than ever, indicating the numerous olive branches by a wave of his hand. "Gott gutt pig varm! Pat, Pat Prydges . . . he sae he pay mae voman, one-huntred; mae, two huntred; mae chil'en . . ." he smiled again, bigly and blandly, "mabbee, five, ten. Yaw ?" "One hundred and sixty acres each: twelve hundred acres for the kids, not one of age, a quarter section to the man!"
It will be almost too good." She stopped abruptly again, and gave him a quick, soft glance, just as the moon rode triumphantly out from behind the filmy, flimsy veil, and shone full down on her eyes and hair. It fell on a bright, round, glistening ball, tucked in among some half curls behind her ear. "What is that?" asked Norman. "That" Mae put up her hand and drew it out "that is my stiletto.
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