little duty, but Phil had to put off writing his name. He's sprained his wrist, you see, at the golf game—and then turning over all the pages of the social register."
Di had benefited from an exceedingly frank interlude with Sam.
"The bride took them on quite a ride," commented Di, indolently draping and revealing, with minute care, her pink, soft body under the rose tints of her shaded light. "She certainly has them hoping high. I bet they're listening at the phone this minute for a call from the Potter Palmers or the Armours, at the very least." And Di inspected the satisfying reflections of her mirror.
"Seen Mrs. Jay Rountree?" she demanded suddenly.
"No."
"Me," said Di, somewhat indignantly, "I had thatorder. Sam shot it across. Then that bride had to kick in and spill everything. My God, what'd she want from me? Why can't a rich dame like her leave a working girl alone?"
"Who're you out with to-night?" Ellen ventured.
"Jello."
"Why?" questioned Ellen, dropping other argument and adopting, for this occasion, only Di's practical point of view. "What's the use, when he can't give you a good order?"
"He'll have to make it a good one—with brother Phil's moniker all over it," retorted Di, confidently and cryptically; and refused to elucidate. But she nursed her personal grievance against Lida Rountree; and this, Ellen slowly understood, was to whip herself up to something she was yet reluctant to do.
