Flibbertigibbet nodded emphatically; the conversation was begun again and continued for half an hour. It was in truth a labor as well as a work of love. The spelling in both cases was far from perfect and, at times, puzzling to both parties; but little by little they became used to each other's erratic symbols together with the queer things for which they stood, and no conversation throughout the length and breadth of New York--yes, even of our United States--was ever more enjoyed than by these three girls. Flibbertigibbet and the Marchioness did the finger-talking, and Freckles helped with the interpretation. In the following translation of this first important exchange of social courtesies, the extremely peculiar spelling, and wild combinations of vowels in particular, are omitted: but the questions and answers are given exactly as they were constructed by the opposite neighbors. "Go slow." This as a word of warning from the Marchioness. "You bet." "Isn't this fun?" "Beats the band." "What is your name?" Flibbertigibbet and her chum looked at each other; should it be nickname or real name? As they were at present in society and much on their dignity they decided to give their real names. "Aileen Armagh." Thereupon Flibbertigibbet beat upon her breast to indicate first person singular possessive. The Marchioness stared at her for a minute, then spelled rather quickly: "It's lovely. We call you something else." "Who's we?" "Aunt Ruth and I." "What do you call me?" "Flibbertigibbet." "Git off!" cried Flibbertigibbet, recklessly shoving Freckles on to the floor. "Gee, how'd she know!" And thereupon she jumped to her feet and, having the broad window sill to herself, started upon a rather restricted coon dance in order to prove to her opposite neighbor that the nickname belonged to her by good right. Oh, but it was fun for the Marchioness! She clapped her hands to show her approval and catching up the skirt of her dainty white frock, slowly raised one leg at a right angle to her body and stood so for a moment, to the intense admiration of the other girls. "That's what they call me here," said Flibbertigibbet when they got down to conversation again. "What is hers?" asked the Marchioness, pointing to Freckles. "Margaret O'Dowd, but we call her Freckles." How the Marchioness laughed! So hard, indeed, that she apparently tumbled off the seat, for she disappeared entirely for several minutes, much to the girls' amazement as well as chagrin. "It's like she broke somethin'," whimpered Freckles; "a bone yer know--her nose fallin' that way when she went over forrard." "She ain't chany, I tell yer; she's jest Injy rubber," said Flibbertigibbet scornfully but with a note of anxiety in her voice. At this critical moment the Marchioness reappeared and jumped upon the seat. She had a curious affair in her hand; after placing it to her eyes, she signalled her answer: "I can see them." "See what?" "The freckles."