She thought Mr.
Gilfoyle was awful swell because he dropped it naturally. But she
read on, scrambling over some of the words the way a horse jumps
a fence one rail too high.
You are so adorable
I find it deplorable,
Absurd and abnormal.
To cling to the formal
'Twere such a good omen
To drop the cognomen.
So I beg you to promise
That you'll call me "Thomas,"
Or better yet, "Tommie,"
Instead of th' abomi-
Nable "Mr. Gilfoyle."
You can, and you will foil
My torments Mephistian
By using my Christian
Name and permitting Yours Truly
To call you yours too-ly.
Miss Adair,
Hear my prayer
Do I dare
Call my love when I meet her
"Anita"? Anita! Anita!!
In the silence that followed she whisked out a box of shrimp-pink
letter-paper she had bought at a drugstore. It was daintily ruled
in violet lines and had a mauve "A" at the top. It was called
"The Nobby Note," and so she knew that it was all right.
She wrote on it the simple but thrilling answer:
DEAR TOMMIE,--You bet your boots!
ANITA.
By the time she had sealed and addressed the shrimpy envelope and
begun feverishly to make up for lost time in changing her costume,
the other girls had recovered a little from the suffocation of her
glory. One of them murmured:
"Say, Aneet, what is your first name? Your really truly one."
Another snarled, "What's your really truly last name?"
A third dryad whooped, "I bet it's Lizzie Smoots or Mag Wimpfhauser.
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