She was a sweet young thing with
cheek dimples and a trilly laugh, and--well, you can guess the rest.
Only, when little sister has made a complete hash of things, she skips
merrily off and marries a prominent 'varsity quarter-back who has water
on the knee and the promise of a nine-dollar-a-week job in uncle's stove
works.
Course, Myra really should have made it up when Professor Hinckley
finally does come crabbin' around with another ring and a sad-eyed alibi.
But she wouldn't--not her. Besides, father had begun takin' mud baths
and experimentin' with climates.
So for eight or ten years she went driftin' around here and there,
battlin' with room clerks and head waiters, hirin' and firin' nurses,
packin' trunks every month or so, and generally enjoyin' the life of a
health hunter, with her punctured romance trailin' further and further
behind her. Even after father had his final spell and the last doctor's
bill was paid off, Myra kept on knockin' around, claimin' there wouldn't
be any fun makin' a home just for herself. Why not? Her income was big
enough, so she didn't have to worry about rates. All she asked was a
room and bath somewhere, and when the season changed she moved on. She'd
got so she could tell you the bad points about every high-priced resort
hotel from Catalina to Bar Harbor, and she knew so many veranda bores by
sight that she could never shake all of 'em for more'n a day or so at a
time.
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