The girl behind the mask of turkey-red giggled. Then she stalked forward and placed two folded red bags, like her own, on the study table.
“Number Sixty-two. Ten-thirty,” she said, in a sepulchral voice, and immediately marched out again by the way she had come.
“Well!” gasped Beth.
But Molly began to giggle now. “It’s just awful—this trying to be a ‘grind.’ My poor, poor Bethesda! your chum’s former reputation is against our ever being the twin Minervas of Rivercliff School.”
“But what does this mean?” demanded Beth, trying on one of the bags.
“Kimono party—sometimes called red-head party. You can see what the bags are for. Unless you are familiar with the kimonos of the whole school, you can’t be sure of who is at the party—save the legal occupant of the room in which the party is held. And sometimes the girls exchange kimonos. So that helps.”
“Helps! How?”
“Why, if we are caught, and can run, the teacher or monitor who catches us can’t see who we are with the bags over our heads. And those who are captured can’t tell on the rest, for everybody’s masked and we can’t be sure. See?”
“Are you going to-night?” Beth asked.
“What number did she say?” rejoined Molly.