There came one day a careless little note, scrawled in huge letters on a
bizarre card with a purple and gold monogram:
“_Won’t you come for dinner on Thursday?_
“JULIE NAYLOR.”
Lionel explained it to her when he arrived that evening.
“Horace made her,” he said. “If she had her own way, I don’t think she’d
ever ask a woman into the house. Of course she’s out of the question.
Impossible. But for Horace’s sake, I wish you’d come. He’s a decent old
boy. And he likes you. Thought you were the prettiest thing he’s
seen---- You’ll go, won’t you?”
Upon reflection, it seemed the correct thing to do, and she consented.
Miss Eppendorfer helped her to get ready on the very important evening.
She took the greatest interest in the whole affair, was very arch about
it. Frances persisted in her “nothing really settled yet,” but Miss
Eppendorfer refused to believe it.
“Oh, I know all about such things!” she said.
This evening was to mark the end of the feeble pretence, anyway. Lionel
came for her a little early, and Miss Eppendorfer undertook to entertain
him until Frankie was ready. She heard them talking gaily together, in
their usual vein of preposterous flirtation. She surmised the customary
brandy and soda, and she felt her invariable shade of annoyance at their
_camaraderie_. If Lionel would only be--not condescending of course,
but--oh, a little more----
An unusually loud shriek from the authoress startled her.
“Oh, you extravagant boy! What a _beauty_! What a perfect beauty!”
She hurried a bit then, and entered the room, looking her very best and
loveliest, dignified, concealing her curiosity. They were on the sofa
side by side, a little table before them holding the siphon and the
brandy bottle, their heads together over something in the authoress’s
hand. Directly she saw Frankie, she thrust the thing back at Lionel.
“_You_ must show it to her!” she cried, in great excitement.