Maid to Measure

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Cote d’Azur sunlight, filtered by the jalousies, made a golden dimness in the room. On the green brocade chaise lay a slender blonde in tennis costume, swinging a racquet in her hand. Each time she swung it, it went thump on the floor.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” said the bearded young man irritably. “I’ve spoiled this damn postcard twice.” He threw a colorful bit of cardboard at the wastebasket, and drew another toward him across the writing desk.

“I wish you wouldn’t make cow’s eyes at aging brunettes in bars,” said the girl. There was a gleam of spite in her big blue eyes.

“Aging!” said the young man automatically, pausing in his work.

“She must have been thirty if she was a day,” said the girl. Thump went the tennis racquet.

“Umm,” said the young man, looking up.

“Umm, hell!” said the girl. Her expression had grown definitely unpleasant. “I’ve got half a mind—”

“What?” asked the young man apprehensively.

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