“I could, I s’pose, but, honestly, I’d rather not,” replied Sally, doubtfully. “I don’t much like to come up to the hotel. I guess you know why.” Doris did know.
“But you can come up to my room, and we’ll be alone there,” she suggested. “I’ve so much I want to talk to you about. I’ve thought of something else,—a dandy scheme.” The plan sorely tempted Sally, but a new thought caused her to refuse once more.
“I’d have to bring Genevieve,” she reminded Doris, “and she mightn’t behave, and—well, I really guess I’d better not.”
“Perhaps tomorrow will be nice again,” ended Doris, hopefully, as she hung up the receiver.
But the morrow was not at all “nice.” On the contrary, it was, if anything, worse than ever. After the morning mail had come, however, Doris excitedly called up Sally again.
“You simply must come up here, if it’s only for a few minutes!” she told her. “I’ve something awfully important that I just must talk to you about and show you.” The “show you” was what convinced Sally.
“All right,” she replied. “I’ll come up for half an hour. I’ll leave Genevieve with Mother. But I can’t stay any longer.”
She came, not very long after, and Doris rushed to meet her from the back porch, for she had walked up the road. Removing her dripping umbrella and mackintosh, Doris led her up to her room, whispering excitedly:
“I don’t know what you’ll think of what I’ve done, Sally, but one thing I’m certain of. It can’t do any harm and it may do some good.”
“What in the world is it?” questioned Sally, wonderingly.