So it wasn’t Gertie.
“Peggy,” yawned Katherine fretfully, “can’t you wake up and help me think what that is?”
But Peggy, accustomed to so much more efficient means of awakening, never stirred.
“Come in,” invited Katherine unwillingly and experimentally to the banging, and Hazel Pilcher entered, with Myra Whitewell in her wake.
“Lazy!” cried Hazel. “You’ve missed breakfast!”
Katherine moaned and hunched her shoulders in her pink-ribboned nightgown. “What’s become of Gertie?” she demanded. “We can’t wake up by ourselves, can we?”
“Gertie’s in Boston; didn’t you know? Went for the week-end,” and Hazel sat down on the foot of the sleeping Peggy’s couch and laughed until she was hoarse. “Now that just shows that what Myra and I are getting up is a real necessity,” she giggled. “If there wasn’t a crack o’ doom of some kind, I suppose the whole second floor of Ambler House would snooze right through the three days until Gertie gets back. It’s—it’s ludicrous,” she finished, after fishing around for a good word.
“You’re sitting on Peggy,” pointed out Katherine lackadaisically when the laughter of her guests had died down.
“Wake up, Peggy,” cried Hazel, shaking the rounded shoulder. “Wake up and quit being sat on.”
“You spoke of a plan,” drawled Katherine, when all had seen that the only effect on Peggy was a tossing of her golden curls on the pillow. “Was it something to take Gertie’s place? If it were, I don’t think anything could; Gertie will get up at any hour to call us, and says she likes it, too. I’m too loyal to Gertie——”