"Nice up here, isn't it?" he remarked.
"It was," said Mary Louise.
"Ha!" exploded he, again. Then, "Where's your mirror?" he
demanded.
"Mirror?" echoed Mary Louise.
"Certainly. You have the hair, the comb, the attitude, and
the general Lorelei effect. Also your singing lured me to your
shores."
"You didn't look lured," retorted Mary Louise. "You looked
lurid."
"What's that stuff in your hand?" next demanded he. He really
was a most astonishingly rude young man.
"Parsley."
"Parsley!" shouted he, much as Charlie had done. "Well, what
the----"
"Back home," elucidated Mary Louise once more, patiently,
"after you've washed your hair you dry it in the back yard, sitting
on the grass, in the sunshine and the breeze. And the garden
smells come to you--the nasturtiums, and the pansies, and the
geraniums, you know, and even that clean grass smell, and the
pungent vegetable odor, and there are ants, and bees, and
butterflies----"
"Go on," urged the young man, eagerly.
"And Mrs. Next Door comes out to hang up a few stockings, and
a jabot or so, and a couple of baby dresses that she has just
rubbed through, and she calls out to you:
"`Washed your hair?'
"`Yes,' you say. `It was something awful, and I wanted it
nice for Tuesday night. But I suppose I won't be able to do a
thing with it.
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