anywhere,--to Newport, to Lenox, to the White Mountains, or touring.
Three times this week we've packed to go to different places, and then
she's changed her mind. But I can't take her back to Long Island, to
her mother's, so soon, or ask a lot of her friends up here. It would
be absurd. But things can't go on this way, either. It--it's awful!"

I leaves him with his chin propped up in his hands, starin' gloomy at
the floor, while I wanders out and pipes off the sun dodgin' behind the
hills.

Later on Robbie insists on draggin' me in for dinner with 'em. She's
some dream too, the way she's got herself up, and lighted up by the
pink candleshades, with them big pansy eyes sparkling and the color
comin' and goin' in her cheeks--say, it most made me dizzy to look.
Then to hear her rattle on in her cute, kittenish way was better'n a
cabaret show. Mostly, though, it's aimed at me; while Nick Talbot is
left to play a thinkin' part. He sits watchin' her with sort of a
dumb, hungry look, like a big dog.

And it was a punk dinner in other ways. The soup was scorched
somethin' fierce; but Robbie don't seem to notice it. The roast lamb
hadn't had the red cooked out of it; but Robbie only asks what kind of
meat it is and remarks that it tastes queer. She has a reg'lar fit,
though, because the dessert is peach ice-cream with fresh fruit
flavorin'.

"And Cook ought to know that I like strawberry better," says she.

"But it's too late for strawberries," explains Nick.