Rose was an impressionist when it came to dress. She got
the desired effect with the least possible effort, as was evinced now by
the way she was whirling two coils of chestnut hair, from which the
tangles had not been removed, into round puffs over each ear. A dab of
rouge on each cheek, a touch of red on the lips, a dash of powder over
the whole, sleeves turned back, neck turned in, resulted in a poster
effect that was quite satisfactory.
Of course the Martels had heard of Quinby Graham: his name had loomed
large in Cass's letters from France and later in his conversation; but
this was the first time the hero was to be presented in person.
"What's he like, Rose?" asked Myrna, arriving breathlessly with the
chafing-dish. Myrna was twelve and seemed to labor under the constant
apprehension that she was missing something, due no doubt to the fact
that she was invariably dispatched on an errand when anything interesting
was pending.
"Don't know," said Rose; "the hall was pitch-dark. He's got a nice voice,
though, and a dandy handshake."
"I bid to sit next to him at supper," said Myrna, hugging herself in
ecstasy.
"You can if you promise not to take two helps of the Welsh rabbit.
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