The Imp's Matinée
call on the Plymouth—we're not at home! Come on to the matinée!" Then everybody laughed and somebody said, "Oh, come on!" and they scrambled out and joined the procession.
It was very gay and exciting! the pretty young women with fluffy parasols, the nice young men with flannels and knickerbockers, the fathers that vowed they'd not come a step farther, and the mothers that said, "Oh, yes, to please little Perry Stafford! He's such a dear!" If the Imp had heard, he would have been greatly surprised. But he was at the head of the procession, striding manfully along, trying to match his short brown corduroy legs to the long white flannel ones. Everything was going beautifully—better than he had dared to hope. He grew very excited, and as they passed the little church and saw a group of people in white dresses eating strawberries on the lawn, he pulled the Tall Young Man's sleeve. "Ask them, too!" he whispered.
"By all means!" agreed the Tall Young Man, and he strode across the lawn and talked vigorously for a moment. There was some objection. The Tall Young Man waved his hand toward the gay, laughing crowd in the rear.
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