“All right, I guess,” says I.

“Stupid!” says she, stampin’ her double A-1 pump peevish.  “Is that the prettiest you can say it?  Come, now—­aren’t they nice on me?”

“Nice don’t cover it,” says I.  “I was only wonderin’ whether orchids was invented for you, or you for orchids.”

This brings out a frilly little laugh, like jinglin’ a string of silver bells, and she shows both dimples.  “That’s better,” says she.  “Almost as good as some of the things Bud Chandler can say.  Dear old Bud!  He’s such fun!”

“He was the gray-eyed one, wa’n’t he?” says I.

“Why, yes,” says she.  “He was a dear.  So was Oggie Holcomb.  I wish Nick would ask them both up.”

“Eh?” says I.  “The also rans?  Here?”

“Pooh!” says she.  “Why not?  It’s frightfully dull, being all alone.  But Nick won’t do it, the old bear!”

Which reminds me that I ought to be scoutin’ for black eyes, or wrist bruises, or finger marks on her neck.  Nothin’ of the kind shows up, though.

“Been kind of rough about it, has he?” says I.

“He’s been perfectly awful!” says she.  “Sulking around as though I’d done something terrible!  But I’ll pay him up.  Come, you’re not going back tonight, are you?”

“Can’t,” says I.  “No train.”

“Then you must play with me,” says she, grabbin’ my hand kittenish and startin’ to run me across the yard.

“But, see here,” says I, followin’ her on the jump.  “Where’s Hubby?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” says she.  “Off tramping through the woods with his dog, I suppose.  He’s sulking, as usual.  And all because I insisted on writing to Oggie!  Then there was something about the servants.  I don’t know, only things went wrong at breakfast, and some of them have threatened to leave.  Who cares?  Yesterday it was about the tennis court.  What if he did telegraph to have it laid out?  I couldn’t play when I found I hadn’t brought any tennis shoes, could I?  Besides, there’s no fun playing against Nick, he’s such a shark.  He didn’t like it, either, because I wouldn’t use the baby golf course.  But I will with you.  Come on.”

“I never did much putting,” says I.

“Nor I,” says she; “but we can try.”

Three or four holes was enough for her, though, and then she has a new idea.  “You rag, don’t you?” says she.

“Only a few tango steps,” says I.  “My feet stutter.”

“Then I’ll show you how,” says she.  “We have some dandy records, and the veranda’s just right.”

So what does she do but tow me back to the house, ring up a couple of maids to clear away all the rugs and chairs, and push the music machine up to the open window.

“Put on that ‘Too Much Mustard,’ Annette,” says she, “and keep it going.”

Must have surprised Annette some, as I hadn’t been accounted for; but a little thing like that don’t bother Robbie.  She gives me the proper grip for the onestep,—­which is some close clinch, believe me!—­cuddles her fluffy head down on my necktie, and off we goes.