daintiest little--well, no matter, but will you tell me?"

Poor Mrs. Budlong almost swooned from the telephone. She did not
know what the color of her wall paper would be in New York. She did
not know that she would ever have wall paper in New York. She only
knew that Myra Eppley, too, was calling her "my dear." Myra Eppley
also was going to give her a Christmas present. And would have to be
given one.

Mrs. Budlong had received fair warning, but she felt about as
grateful as a wayfarer feels to the rattlesnake that whizzes "Make
r-r-r-ready for the corrroner-r-r."

Next, young Mrs. Chur (Editha Cinnamon as was, for she had finally
landed Mr. Chur in spite of the accident--or because of it) called up
to say:

"Oh, my dear, my husband wants to know what brand of cigars your
husband smokes; and would you tell me, dearie--it's rather personal,
but--what size bath-slippers you wear?"

When Sally Swezey came to the Progressive Euchre skirmish at Mrs.
Budlong's she noted with joy that her hint had borne fruit. The
prizes were indeed of solid gold. Mr. Budlong did not learn it till
the first of the following month when the bill came in from Jim
Henderson's jewelry store.

As if she had not done enough in forcing solid gold prizes on Mr.
Budlong, Sally had to say: