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 "kissed all the men when you presented them. Was that—is that a good plan? I should think"

"No!" cried Jock emphatically. "No, it's not. Don't pattern after Molly, Cecily, for heaven's sake, except perhaps in the matter of clothes. She's a trifle—well, don't pattern after her, that's all. Now, this kissing business is another thing. Don't deal 'em out broadcast, so that they're about as hard to procure as—as potatoes, and about as inspiring. Hang onto them. Remember there's a terrific wallop in unattainable things." He stopped meditating. "About pep—I'd say be peppy if you can, but don't try to be. I don't think there's anything worse than forced pep. Vivacity is spontaneous, or it's nothing. The things these girls do, for instance—things you've seen them do in the last twenty-four hours around here—are forced, to me. They're stunts, carefully thought out beforehand to attract attention. My idea of pep is always having something to say, and never appearing bored no matter who you're with, and always being ready to step out somewhere at a moment's notice—things like that. Not necessarily jumping around like a maniac, shouting and shimmying and all that exaggerated jazz-baby stuff"

Sudden commotion interrupted him. Rattle of the front door knob, footsteps and voices in the hall—then Molly and Dopey Lane came in, seemingly blown in on a great frosty sigh of November air. Jock saw in a single glance that Dopey was quite drunk—he swayed from heels to toes and back again like a balancing toy as he stood there—and that Molly was very angry.

"S'big idea?" Dopey demanded, attempting a frown but achieving only a sort of grimace. "Li'l twoshome?twoshome?" [sic] "Woman—" he indicated Molly with a jerk of his thumb—"in hysherics about shoes."