"Tell your story again, Dora," suggested Doane.
Dora Morgan looked at Kimberly defiantly. "No," she said briefly.
"Pshaw, tell it," urged Doane. "It’s about the Virgin Mary, Robert."
Dora was firm: "It’s not a bachelor’s story," she insisted.
"Most of your stories are bachelors’ stories, Dora," said Kimberly.
Dora threw away her cigarette. "Listen to that! Didn’t I tell you?" she asked appealing to Doane. "Robert is getting to be a real nice man."
In an effort to appease both sides, Doane laughed, but somewhat carefully.
"I got into trouble only the other day in telling that story," continued Dora, with the same undercurrent of defiance.
Effectively dressed, though with a tendency to color, and with dark, regular features, flushed a little at night, Dora Morgan had a promise of manner that contrasted peculiarly with her freedom of tongue.
"Tell us about it, Dora?" said Lottie Nelson.
"It was over at The Towers. I was telling the story to Uncle John. His blood is red, yet," she added without looking at Robert Kimberly to emphasize her implication.
"Uncle John!" echoed Fritzie, at fault. "Did Uncle John object?"
"Oh, no, you misunderstand. It wasn’t Uncle John." Every one but Kimberly laughed. "I was telling Uncle John the story, and his nurse--your protégé, what’s his name? I never can remember--Lazarus? the queer little Italian," she said, appealing to Kimberly.
"He’s not so awfully little," interposed Fritzie.
"Well, he was in the room," continued Dora, "and he got perfectly furious the moment he heard it."
"Furious, Dora? Why, how funny!" exclaimed Lottie Nelson, languidly.
"He turned on me like a thunder-cloud. Poor Uncle John was still laughing--he laughs on one side of his face since his stroke, and looks so fiendish, you know--when Lazarus began to glower at me. He was really insulting in his manner. ’Oh, I didn’t know you were here,’ I said to hush him up. ’What difference should that make?’ he asked, and his eyes were flashing, I can tell you."
"’The Virgin Mary is no relation of yours, is she?’ I demanded frigidly. You ought to have seen the man. You know how sallow he is; he flushed to the roots of his hair and his lips snapped like a trap. Then he became ashamed of himself, I dare say, and his eyes fell; he put his hand on his breast and bowed to me as if I had been a queen--they certainly have the prettiest manners, these poor Italians--haven’t they, Imogene?"