Eileen was a tiny woman, delicately moulded, exquisitely colored, and one of the most perfectly successful tendrils from the original clinging vine in her intercourse with men, and with such women as would tolerate the clinging-vine idea in the present forthright days.
With a strand of softly curled hair in one hand and a fancy pin in the other, Eileen turned a disapproving look upon her sister.
"What's the great idea ?" demanded Linda shortly.
"Oh, it's perfectly splendid," answered Eileen.

"John Gilman's best friend is motoring around here looking for a location to build a home.
He is an author and young and good looking and not married, and he thinks he would like to settle somewhere near Los Angeles.

Of course John would love to have him in Lilac Valley because he hopes to build a home here some day for himself.

His name is Peter Morrison and John says that his articles and stories have horse sense, logic, and humor, and he is making a lot of money." "Then God help John Gilman, if he thinks now that he is in love with you," said Linda dryly.
Eileen arched her eyebrows, thinned to a hair line, and her lips drew together in disapproval.
"What I can't understand," she said, "is how you can be so unspeakably vulgar, Linda." Linda laughed sharply.
"And this Peter Morrison and John are our guests for dinner ?" "Yes," said Eileen.

"I am going to show them this valley inside and out.
I'm so glad it's spring.