"You needn't rub it in--I get you. Swell chance of YOU ever wanting
to make a date!"

His sulkiness of tone, for some reason, gratified her. Her own
became even more gracious as she said again: "We hope you can come.
And bring any of your friends you wish."

She was much pleased with this sustained anonymity she had given
Genevieve.

When the opening night of the Methodist revival arrived, most of the
"crowd" might have been seen grouped together in one of the rearmost
pews of the church. Arthur and Genevieve were there, Genevieve in
her white fox furs, of course. She was giggling and making eyes as
if she were at a party or a movie show instead of in church. Missy--
who had had to do a great deal of arguing in order to be present
with her, so to speak, guests--preserved a calm, sweet, religious
manner; it was far too relentlessly Christian to take note of
waywardness. But the way she hung on the words of the minister,
joined in song, bowed her head in prayer, should have been rebuke
enough to any light conduct. It did seem to impress Arthur; for,
looking at her uplifted face and shining eyes, as in her high, sweet
treble, she sang, "Throw Out the Life-Line," he lost the point of
one of Genevieve's impromptu jokes and failed to laugh in the right
place. Genevieve noticed his lapse. She also noticed the reason. She
herself was not a whit impressed by Missy's devotions, but she was
unduly quiet for several minutes. Then she stealthily tore a bit of
leaf from her hymnal--the very page on which she and other frail
mortals were adjured to throw out life-lines--and began to fashion