Vee says Myra simply wouldn't open
the box for half an hour; but then she softened up, and after she'd been
buckled into this pink creation with the rosebud shoulder straps she
consents to take one squint at the glass. Then it develops that Myra is
still human. From that to allowin' a hairdresser to be called in was
only a step, which explains the whole miracle of how Myra blossomed out.
And say, for a late bloomin' it was a wonder. Honest, when I gets my
first glimpse of her standin' under the hall light with Hilda holdin' her
opera wrap, I lets out a gurgle. Had I wandered into the wrong
apartment? Was I disturbin' some leadin' lady just goin' on for the
first act? No, there was Cousin Myra's thin nose and pointed chin. But,
with her hair loosened up and her cheeks tinted a bit from excitement,
she looks like a different party. Almost stunnin', you know.
Vee nudges me to quit the gawp act.
"Gosh!" I whispers. "Who'd have thought it?"
"S-s-s-sh!" says Vee. "We don't want her to suspect a thing."
I don't know whether she did or not, but when we're towed into the
dinin'-room she spots the table decorations right off, and whirls on me.
"Here's plotting, young man," says she. "But if you will tell me how you
discovered I was so fond of Louis Philippe roses I'll forgive you.
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