"
"Selling lemonade?" cried Pembroke.
"Never mind him, Mr. Pembroke," laughed Phyllis.
"It was a long time ago," I went on. "I was a new reporter. Mr.
Wentworth had to be interviewed. It was one of those hot days in May.
The servant at the door said that Mr. Wentworth was in the back
yard--he called it the garden--where I soon found myself. You had a
small table, a glass and a pitcher. I suppose every time your uncle
got thirsty you sold him a glass. You wore short dresses--"
"Terrible!" cried Phyllis, shielding her face with the hand-screen.
"And looked as cool as the ice in the pitcher, and as fresh as the
flowers which lined the walls. I thought that if I bought a glass of
you I might make my approach to your uncle an easier task. So I looked
at you and smiled, and you giggled."
"Giggled!" cried Phyllis, indignantly.
Pembroke was laughing.
"Yes, actually giggled," I went on. "I laid down a twenty-five-cent
piece, and you poured but some water which had had nothing more than a
mild flirtation with a lemon, and I gulped it down. I held out my
hand, and you said that there wasn't any change.
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