woman-hater. But what true womanly woman is not?
Angie had had no breakfast that morning, Angie had not had, and she was feeling a little tropical in the inskirts of her equator. Late the evening before she had found, outside the inside of Delmonico’s, lo, a bill-of-fare, thrown out the window, probably, by some bill-collector. Hungry and worried, she had devoured the whole menu from the date to the final period. . . . It must have been the Chignons sous cloche that had disagreed with her. Undoubtedly the dinner card had not been quite fresh.
So Angie had to walk down town on an empty stomach. If it had been anyone’s else stomach it wouldn’t have been so hard; but to have to walk on her own—without rubbers—was very rough on a proud, sensitive girl, especially when slightly cross-eyed.
A demonstrator of mackintoshes was Angie. All day long she sat in a red one and a happy smile under a shower of real water in a shop window, regarding the passers-by. It was a bit damp, the mackintoshes not being really as waterproof as they
