looking like a picnic collation with ants in the pie. You're coming
with me, more for my sake than for yours, because the thought of you
sitting here, like this, would sour the day for me."

Blanche LeHaye's fingers were picking at the pin which fastened her
gown. She smiled, uncertainly.

"What's your game?" she inquired.

"I'll wait for you downstairs," said Emma McChesney, pleasantly. "Do
you ever have any luck with caramel icing? Ethel's and mine always
curdles."

"Do I?" yelled the queen of burlesque. "I invented it." And she was
down on her knees, her fingers fumbling with the lock of her suitcase.

Only an Ethel Morrissey, inured to the weird workings of humanity by
years of shrewd skirt and suit buying, could have stood the test of
having a Blanche LeHaye thrust upon her, an unexpected guest, and with
the woman across the street sitting on her front porch taking it all
in.

At the door--"This is Miss Blanche LeHaye of the--er--Simon--"

"Sam Levin Crackerjack Belles," put in Miss LeHaye. "Pleased to meet
you."

"Come in," said Miss Ethel Morrissey without batting an eye. "I just
'phoned the hotel. Thought you'd gone back on me, Emma. I'm baking a
caramel cake. Don't slam the door. This your first visit here, Miss