“What is this about Sherry’s?” Again the parlor was invaded. This time by Sylvia’s mother. She had bright cheeks, bright eyes, bright hair. In her voice was indulgence, in her manner ease. She gave a hand to Fanny, the other to Annandale.
“In my day,” she resumed, “girls did not go lunching without someone to look after them.”
“They certainly did not go to Sherry’s,” said Annandale. “There was no Sherry’s to go to. But why won’t you come with us?”
“Thank you, Arthur. It is not because Fanny or Sylvia needs looking after. But when I was their age anything of the sort would have been thought so common. Yet then, what was common at that time seems to have been accepted since. Now, there is a chance to call me old-fashioned.”
“I can do better than that,” said Annandale, “I can call you grande dame.”
“Yes,” Fanny threw in, “and that, don’t you think, is so superior to being merely—ahem—demned grand.”
“Why, Fanny!” And Mrs. Waldron, at once amused at the jest and startled at the expression, shook her finger at her.
But Annandale hastened to her rescue. “Fanny is quite right, Mrs. Waldron. You meet women nowadays whose grandfathers, if they had any, were paving the streets while your own were governing the country and who, just because they happen to be beastly rich, put on airs that would be comical in an empress. Now, won’t you change your mind and come with us? At Sherry’s there are always some choice selections on view.”
“You are not very tempting, Arthur. But if the girls think otherwise, take them. And don’t forget. You dine with us tonight.”