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“A South American?” questioned her mamma.
"I always think of Rodolph Valentino as a South American,” said I, desperately.
‘Tve seen him in the pictures and I think he’s splendid,” Miss Hayes encouraged.
At this sparkling moment I put my hand on an open book that lay beside me on the sofa, and, “Don’t!” cried Miss Hayes’ mamma, rescuing the book from me.
“Don’t!” she warned. “Don’t look at it! It was highly recommended to read on the train. But I wouldn’t have Helen see it for the world! — You were speaking of Rodolph Valentino. I saw an advertisement for one of his pictures that read — what do you think! — ‘The Kiss That Burns.’ I had to read to the bottom of the column to find that it was not the title of a play but only an ad for ‘Blood and Sand.’ ”
“I’d like to meet the man that writes those curdling ads,” said Miss Helen, ever so quietly.
“Helen !” said her mamma.
“I should!” said Helen.
“I think I could fix it,” said I ; “I know Will Page.”
“Will Page!” said mamma, mollified, I know not why. “Why, he’s a Washington boy! — But I’ve got to go and arrange for the apartment we’re moving to tomorrow. I simply must.”
I rose.
“Oh, don’t let me take you away. I’ll be back in half an hour. Don’t feel that you have to ”
“Wild horses,” I said, looking at Helen, “couldn’t drag me.”
Although Miss Helen comfortably curled herself up at the other extreme of the long davenport on which I sat, I think we had a minute or two, or at least a second or two, of self-consciousness at finding ourselves