doors dress. "I wish I didn't have so darn much figure," he heard her wail.
On her return she proposed going out for tea. "I feel cooped up," she said. "Besides I want to stop at a couple of shops, and I always get stuck for the French for words like hind-side-to. The French don't seem to use 'em. Mamie Mangum tried interpreting for me the other day but got herself all bawled up. Her French is mostly all accent and arm-play. Don't you adore Mamie? She's such a fool. To see her walking around like a mannequin with all the style of a damp handkerchief! Chuck me that hat, honey."
"You're such a comfort, Floss," sighed Grover as they walked downstairs. "For one thing you don't ask questions."
"'Cause I know all the answers. Life's a gyp."
He looked at her quickly, as he held open the door. She pulled her furs around her neck and got into the car, still beaming.
"Why, aren't you happy?"
"Sure I am, but only because I've quit sitting at the window watching for Happiness to come up and call on me. High-hat Fate before she high-hats you, and you're safe."
Grover sat back meditating. Sitting at Floss's side he was reminded of the spring afternoons when he drove with Sophie. How palely orchidaceous Sophie's image seemed when compared with the abundant and luxuriant princess from Chicago, and how chastened,
