"Aunt Agatha insisted that it was some iniquitous and
cunningly disguised Seminole species of turkey trot. She was horribly
shocked and grew white as a ghost at my daring--"
"Fiddlesticks!" said Ann Sherrill. "She ought to have _all_ the shock
out of her by now after bringing up you and Carl! _I'm_ going to ride
out to the flat-woods with you, for I'm simply _dying_ for a new
sensation. Dick's as stupid as an owl. He does nothing but hang
around the Beach Club. And Philip Poynter's tennis mad. He looks hurt
if you ask him to do anything else except perhaps to trail fatuously
after you. It's the flat-woods for mine."
Ann returned from her visit to the Indian camp scintillant with italics
and enthusiasm.
"My dear," she said, "I'm _wild_ about her--_quite_ wild! . . . I'm
going again and _again_! . . . If I knew _half_ as much and were
_half_ as lovely-- Why, do you know, Diane, she set me right about
some ridiculous quotation, and I never try to get them straight, for
_half_ the time I find my own way so _much_ more expressive. . . .
There's Philip Poynter with a tennis racquet again! Diane, I'm losing
patience with him."
From her madcap craving for new sensation, Ann was destined to evolve
an inspiration which with customary energy and Diane's interested
connivance she swept through to fruition, unaware that Fate marched,
leering, at her heels.
Pages:
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210