"I never saw such an utterly impossible girl," she said; "there she sits and won't get dressed and come down to dinner." "She is a freak, must be, most of these writer people are freaks," said Wilbur sympathetically.

"Poor old girl, and I suppose you have got up a nice dinner too." "A perfectly charming dinner and invited people to meet her." "How did she do her stunt this afternoon ?" Margaret flushed.

"None too well," she replied.
"Oh, well, dear, I don't see how you are to blame." "I can say that Miss Wallingford is not well, I suppose," said Margaret, and that was what she did say, but with disastrous results.
Margaret, ravishing in white lace, sprinkled with little gold butterflies, had taken her place at the head of her table.

Emma was serving the first course and she was making her little speech concerning the unfortunate indisposition of her guest of honour when she was suddenly interrupted by that guest herself, an image of sulky wrath, clad in the blue and black costume pertaining to South Mordan, Illinois.
"I am perfectly well.

She is telling an awful whopper," proclaimed this amazing girl.