“Then I’ll take care of you,” promised Beth, laughing again.
“You are a nice little thing,” repeated Cynthia Fogg.
“Thank you. My room is Number Fifty-three.”
“I know,” said the other. “I saw those flowers. I’ll wait till you get there before I come upstairs.”
Beth re-entered the enclosed part of the boat and went up to the main deck at once. She had been in her stateroom ten minutes before she heard a quiet little rustle outside her door. She had left it unlocked, but now she turned the knob invitingly.
The freckled girl pushed it open and glided in, closing it noiselessly behind her.
“Here I am,” she said.
CHAPTER VIII
QUEER TALK
The dress of this unfortunate in whose fate Beth had taken such a strong interest, had already made the girl from Hudsonvale wonder. Such a shocking combination of color and tawdry finery Beth had seldom seen, even in a mill village, which Hudsonvale was.
Yet the tall, freckled girl wore the incongruous garments with utter unconsciousness. She never seemed to give her dress a thought.