“You’re silly; but you’re rather nice, after all,” says she, poutin’ her lips at me.

“Now quit that,” says I.  “I got my fingers crossed.”

“’Fraid cat!” says she.  “But here’s the house, and we’re frightfully early.  Now don’t act as though you thought I might bite you.  I’m going to take your arm.”

She does too, and cuddles up kittenish as we lands at the porte cochere.  I gets the idea of this move.  She’s caught a glimpse of a little group over by the front door, and she wants to make a showy entrance.

And who do you guess it is we finds arrangin’ the flower vases?  Oh, only Marjorie and Miss Vee.  Here I am too, with giddy Gladys, the imitation front row girl, clingin’ tight to my right wing.  You should have seen Vee’s eyebrows go up, also Marjorie’s stare.  It’s a minute or so before she recognizes our little friend, and stands there lookin’ puzzled at us.  Talk about your embarrassin’ stage waits!  I could feel my face pinkin’ up and my ears tinglin’.

“Ah, say,” I breaks out, “don’t tell me I’ve gone and collected the wrong one!”

At that there comes a giggle from under the zippy lid.

“Why, it’s Gladys!” says Marjorie.  “Well, I never!”

“Of course, you dear old goose!” says Gladys, and rushes to a clinch.

“But—­but, Gladys!” says Marjorie, holdin’ her off for another inspection.  “How you have—­er—­grown up!  Why, your mother never told me a word!”

“Oh, Mummah!” says she, indicatin’ deep scorn.  “Besides, she hasn’t seen me for nearly two days, and—­well, I suppose she will fuss, as usual, about the way I’m dressed.  But I’ve had a perfectly glorious visit, and coming up in the car with dear Torchy was such sport.  Wasn’t it, now?” With which she turns to me.

“Was it?” says I, and I notices both Vee and Marjorie gazin’ at me int’rested.

“Of course,” says Gladys, prattlin’ on, “we quarreled all the way up; but it was all his fault, and he—­oh, phsaw!  Here come my dear parents.”

Takin’ Gladys as a sample, you’d never guessed it; for Mother is a quiet, modest appearin’ little party, with her wavy brown hair parted in the middle and brushed back low.  She’s wearin’ her own complexion too, and, while she’s dressed more or less neat and stylish, she don’t sport ear danglers, or anything like that.  With Father in the background she comes sailin’ up smilin’, and it ain’t until she gets a peek under the mush-bowl lid that her expression changes.

“Why, Gladys!” she gasps.

“Now, Mummah!” protests Gladys peevish.  “For goodness sake don’t begin—­anyway, not here!”

“But—­but, my dear!” goes on Mother, starin’ at her shocked.  “That—­that hat!  And your hair!  And—­and your face!”

“Oh, bother!” says Gladys, stampin’ her high-heeled pump.  “You’d like to have me dress like Cousin Tilly, I suppose?”

“But you know I asked you not to—­to have that done to your hair again,” says Mother.