'
Mrs. Dowey feels a thumping at her breast.
'Kenneth, tell me this instant what you mean. Don't keep me on the
jumps.'
He turns her round.
'No, It couldn't be done.'
'Was it me you were thinking of?'
'Just for the moment,' regretfully, 'but you have no style.'
She catches hold of him by the sleeve.
'Not in this, of course. But, oh, Kenneth, if you saw me in my merino!
It's laced up the back in the very latest.'
'Hum,' doubtfully; 'but let's see it.'
It is produced from a drawer, to which the old lady runs with almost
indecent haste. The connoisseur examines it critically.
'Looks none so bad. Have you a bit of chiffon for the neck? It's not
bombs nor Kaisers nor Tipperary that men in the trenches think of, it's
chiffon.'
'I swear I have, Kenneth, And I have a bangle, and a muff, and gloves.'
'Ay, ay.' He considers. 'Do you think you could give your face less of
a homely look?'
'I'm sure I could.'
'Then you can have a try. But, mind you, I promise nothing. All will
depend on the effect.'
He goes into the pantry, and the old lady is left alone.
Pages:
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45