QUITE INFORMAL
AMY'S memorable dinner party, which had resulted in making Bob
Carey such a frequent caller, was responsible for another agreeable
friendship. Bob's sister Hildegarde, if she did not fully share
her brother's sentiments where Amy was concerned, acknowledged,
nevertheless, to a thorough liking for the girl who had played the part
of hostess under such trying circumstances. She saw considerable of Amy
and, through her, had made the acquaintance of Amy's especial chums on
Friendly Terrace. The girls all liked Hildegarde, and Hildegarde liked
them, though she was continually accusing them of being old-fashioned
in their ideas. Hildegarde had rather more spending money than was good
for her, and her social ambitions were the bane of Bob's existence. Bob
hated formality. He never put on his dress suit except under protest,
and his popularity among his sister's friends, with the resulting
invitations to all sorts of affairs, awakened his profound resentment.
The simple good times of Amy's set where every one came at eight
o'clock and went home at ten, exactly suited him.
There was perhaps a spice of malice back of an invitation Amy received
one morning. The previous evening Bob had accompanied his sister to
the home of one of her friends. He had gone reluctantly, only yielding
when Hildegarde had agreed to start for home promptly at ten. There had
been other callers, however, and bridge had been suggested, so that it
was quarter of one when the brother and sister reached home. Bob was
frankly sulky. "I hate to go down to the office in the morning feeling
like a fool because I haven't had sleep enough," he declared.
"Bob Carey, any one would suppose you were an old grandfather to hear
you talk. I don't know another fellow your age who thinks he has to go
to bed with the chickens."
"And knowing the hours some of your friends keep," returned
Bob irritatingly, "I'm not surprised at their seeming lack of
intelligence. They're practically walking in their sleep."
"Please leave my friends alone. You wouldn't be particularly pleased if
I began sneering at Amy."
"Sneering at Amy!" Bob's tone was scornful as he repeated his sister's
words. "If you did, it would be only to get even with me."
"I don't suppose she's absolute perfection."
"I don't know."
"Oh, Bob, don't be so absurd." But though Hildegarde ended with a
laugh, she was still resentful. She knew that Bob had planned to call
on Amy that evening and shrewdly judged that, since she had thwarted
his intention, he would go the following night. Accordingly she
called Amy on the phone bright and early, and invited her to attend a
down-town picture show; not an ordinary movie, but a special attraction
with the seats selling at regular theater prices. Amy exclaimed
delightedly, and then caught herself up.
"I forgot that Peggy and Priscilla were coming over to-night. But I'm
sure they'll let me off. I'll call them up and then call you. I'm
crazy to see that picture, but I didn't expect to for a year or two
till it got down to the twenty-five cent houses."
"We'll ask Peggy and Priscilla to go, too," said Hildegarde.
"Gorgeous," replied Amy, "and it's so near the end of vacation we can
make it a final spree"; and Hildegarde, smiling a little, proceeded to
call the two Sweet P's as she mentally designated them. Both girls were
unqualifiedly delighted to accept, for one of the advantages of not
possessing too much money is that the zest for simple pleasures remains
keen. Hildegarde had friends who were blasé over a trip to Europe, and
she always felt a little wonder, not without a tinge of patronage it
must be admitted, over the thoroughness with which Amy and her friends
could enjoy things.
When Hildegarde announced casually at the dinner table that she would
have to be excused before the desert, as she and Amy were to see the
"Star of Destiny" that evening, her brother shot her a comprehending
glance. "I'd have bought a ticket for you, Bob," Hildegarde explained
teasingly, "Only I felt sure you meant to go to bed at nine, and make
up the sleep you lost last evening."
"You're always thoughtful, Hildegarde," said Bob with an irony so
apparent that his mother stared. And Hildegarde hurrying through
her dinner, felt cheerful certainty that as far as her brother was
concerned, she had evened the score.
The "Star of Destiny" proved quite as thrilling as any of the audience
could have wished, and the accompanying comedy a trifle less inane than
the average picture comedy. At ten o'clock the girls left the theater,
while the crowd that had been standing in line scrambled to take the
seats they had vacated. As they reached the sidewalk, Hildegarde
slipped her hand through the arm of Priscilla, who happened to be
nearest, "I'm on the point of starvation," she declared gaily. "I had
to hurry through my dinner so, I feel as though I hadn't had a thing.
Now we'll go over to the Green Parrot and get something to eat."
The guests hesitated. "Is--do you think it is all right for girls to go
there alone in the evening?" asked Peggy doubtfully.
"Why of course. The name's rather lurid, but it's a perfectly nice
place. Let's take this cross-street and then we'll save half a block."
On the way to the popular restaurant, Hildegarde did most of the
talking. None of her guests felt exactly comfortable over accepting the
invitation; and yet to decline it, when Hildegarde declared herself
half starved, seemed decidedly ungracious. None of the Friendly
Terrace girls had been brought up to think a chaperone a necessary
accompaniment to all youthful pleasures, but venturing into a down-town
restaurant at ten o'clock in the evening, without either chaperone
or escort, was rather too up-to-date to please any of them. Peggy
pictured Graham's face when she told him of the climax of the evening's
pleasures, and smiled rather ruefully.
Once inside, it must be admitted, the spirits of all three revived. The
big room was so lighted that it was more dazzling than the noon day. A
space had been cleared for dancing, and several couples were revolving
in time to a catchy popular air. The majority of the tables were
occupied, but the head-waiter, who evidently recognized Hildegarde,
led the way to a small round table at the side, and seated them with a
flourish. No one had seemed to notice them, and Peggy hoped that their
inconspicuous location would prevent any unwelcome attention.
"After all," she thought sensibly, "it's a perfectly respectable
place, and perhaps it's not considered queer for girls to come alone."
Unconsciously her fear of arousing unfavorable comment rendered her
unusually subdued, and the other girls took their cue from her,
speaking in their lowest voices, smiling discreetly, and otherwise
conducting themselves with as much decorum as if there had been a
chaperone apiece.
After some discussion they decided on welsh rarebit, and Hildegarde
also ordered coffee and rolls. The rarebit came in due time, an
island of toast in a seething lava-lake of rarebit. The girls sniffed
appreciatively and exchanged smiles. "To think I didn't know I was
hungry," Amy exclaimed.
"I wish I could make my rarebits smooth like this," sighed Peggy. "It
looks so wonderful that I hate to eat it."
Their faces cheerful, but their manners still decorously subdued, the
four girls attacked the dainty which has so undesirable a reputation in
the matter of dreams. Though Hildegarde was the only one of the four
who had not done justice to her dinner, all were young enough to feel
hungry at the sight of the tempting dish. The islands of toast vanished
as if submerged by a tidal wave. The miniature lava lakes gradually
disappeared, and the big plate of rolls was so diminished by successive
onslaughts that the few remaining had a lonely look.
Priscilla was buttering the end of her roll when, in involuntary
emphasis of something she was saying, she pressed it more energetically
than she realized. As if determined to escape the fate of its comrades,
the fragment flew from her fingers. It cleared the space between that
table and the next as if it had been winged, and then made sure of
escape by dropping in the coffee cup of a young man in eye glasses, who
was composedly eating fried oysters.
The young man looked up, startled as a splash of coffee on his cheek
challenged his attention. He looked about in all directions and at
length his inquiring gaze came to the table where sat the agonized
Priscilla. Here, alas! it halted. For as she had seen the bewildering
gyrations of the fragment of Priscilla's roll, Amy had burst into
an astonished giggle and had continued to giggle without cessation.
Hildegarde, too, had lost interest in the remnant of her meal, and sat
leaning her head on her hand, speechless with laughter. As for Peggy
and Priscilla, they were looking at each other in silent stupefaction,
their flaming cheeks seemingly proclaiming their guilt. It was no
wonder the young man in eye-glasses looked no farther. He had found the
ones responsible.
For an agonizing moment Priscilla sat uncertain what to do. Then
summoning her common sense to her aid, she turned to the sole occupant
of the next table. "I am very sorry," she said with that dignity that
was Priscilla's own. "A piece of roll slipped from my fingers when I
was buttering it, and flew across to your table. It--it is in your
coffee cup."
The young man looked into his cup and perceived the floating fragment.
When again he lifted his eyes to Priscilla's he was smiling. "I thought
some acquaintance had thrown something at me to attract my attention,"
he explained.
"No," said Priscilla. "It was an unfortunate accident. I beg your
pardon." And then she turned to her own coffee, and seemingly gave it
her attention, though so intense was her excitement that she might as
well have been drinking warm water as the coffee for which the Green
Parrot was famous.
Peggy was proud of the dignity with which Priscilla had met a difficult
situation, but poor Priscilla was not to find it easy to preserve that
dignity. Amy was still giggling, her face wearing an expression of
suffering, due to the exhausting effect of continuous laughter. Across
the table Hildegarde pressed her handkerchief to her eyes and moaned
softly. And all at once it seemed to Priscilla that she must shriek
with laughter or die.
A moment later Peggy uttered an ejaculation of consternation, for the
tears were running down Priscilla's cheeks. She sat perfectly erect,
her eyes upon the table, and her only sign of emotion those tell-tale
tears. Peggy was really alarmed.
"Priscilla, you mustn't take it so to heart. It wasn't anything. Don't
cry."
"But I must do something," responded Priscilla in a strangled voice.
"Oh, can't we get away?"
Her laughing companions sobered at the discovery that Priscilla was in
tears. Hildegarde called the waiter and demanded her check. But before
they could get away, the young man in eye-glasses had risen and crossed
to their table.
"I hope you're not worrying about that roll," he said, looking down
dismayed at Priscilla's tear-wet cheeks. "It's not worth thinking of
twice, you know."
Seeing that Priscilla was incapable of replying, Peggy came to her
friend's assistance. "Of course it was only an accident," she said,
"But it made her a little nervous."
"So I see. I'm terribly sorry. If I could be of any service--" The
young man's face was troubled, his manner earnest. Peggy appreciated
the sincerity of his feeling, even while she longed to take him by the
ear and lead him to the door. For heads were turning in their direction
from all over the room. They were the observed of all observers.
"Oh, thank you," said Peggy hastily, "she will feel all right as soon
as she gets outside. This room is so warm," she added rather inanely.
To her enormous relief the waiter appeared with Hildegarde's change.
Hildegarde tipped him extravagantly, rammed her remaining bills into
her purse, and all four girls started for the door. The young man with
the eye-glasses remained standing, staring after them, and Peggy's
cheeks crimsoned as she realized the attention they were attracting.
She was quite sure she had a case of hysterics on her hands when, once
outside, Priscilla began to laugh. It started in a little smothered
giggle which soon had developed into peals of laughter. Peggy was
terrified. "Priscilla," she cried, "for Heaven's sake--"
But Amy who had begun laughing sympathetically, as soon as Priscilla
started off, checked herself to remonstrate.
"Let her alone, Peggy. All that ails her is she wanted to laugh and
couldn't, and I don't know anything that hurts worse. Isn't that it,
Priscilla?"
Priscilla could not answer in words, but she nodded vehemently and
laughed and wiped her wet eyes and laughed on till she sobbed. And then
all at once she stopped short, drew a long breath, and exclaimed, "I
feel better."
They made their way to the street cars, discussing the late
unpleasantness with much animation and making use of many lurid
adjectives. It was Hildegarde who exclaimed, "Don't you wish you knew
who he was?" She referred, of course, to the young man in eye-glasses.
Priscilla stiffened. "Mercy, no! I hope he was a stranger in town,
stopping over a train, and that I'll never lay eyes on him again."
But that wish, though it came from the depths of Priscilla's heart, was
not destined to come true.