thin corrugated neck protruded above one of Pete's collars, three sizes too large for him.
"Pleased to meet you, ma'am. Make yourself to home," he mumbled, glancing sideways at Minnie to see whether he was conducting himself according to her orders. "You can sit in the morris chair with the angora cover to it. Yes, ma'am, sit right down and make yourself to home."
"Thank you," said Eleanor, with a distant expression in her eyes, "but I prefer to sit in a straight-backed chair."
Mr. Flynn's hands made a grating sound as he rubbed them together. When he walked his new shoes squeaked. Eleanor could hardly keep from laughing.
Nettie came in, her face coated with a heavy leaded white powder. Her hair was neatly combed.
"I hope you don't mind the way the house looks," she said, after the introduction. "If Minnie had give us notice we'd of had it all fixed up for you."
"I'm glad I didn't put you to that trouble," said Eleanor politely. "It looks very nice the way it is. I'm sure if anyone dropped in unexpectedly on me they'd never find such a well-kept establishment."
"It's not a bad little joint," said Nettie, reaching over to sweep away the fallen ashes from the punk stick. . . . "We like it pretty well, don't we, Min?"
Minnie could have cried from mortification. The idea of Nettie having so little sense that she failed to pick up a cue from a girl like Eleanor, but had to follow the classy word "establishment" with "joint."
Mrs. Flynn saw the angry flash in Minnie's eyes and with an awkward laugh tried to cover it up.
"Nettie likes to tease her sister, Miss Grant," she apologized, "always calls this place a joint. Don't she, Minnie dear?"
