When Mrs. Doremus was introduced, Patty’s thoughts ran somewhat like this:
“Nice old lady; apple-cheeked, white-haired and quiet-mannered. A little shy, but well-bred and kindly. Old-fashioned dress,—or, rather it looks so, because it’s so long. Why, it almost touches the floor. But, she’s all right, and her big, tortoise-rimmed glasses give her quite an air of distinction.”
Helen, on the other hand, paid little attention to the chaperon, save to greet her pleasantly and thank her for her presence.
The five went to the Club dining-room for luncheon. There were a few others at various tables, but no one with whom the girls were acquainted.
“I’m fairly brimming with happiness,” Helen announced; “I’ve always longed to be at a big country club in winter, and I’ve never achieved it before.”
“It’s winter, all right,” said Herron, looking out at the steady snowfall. “But the palms and flowers make this seem like an oasis of summer, screened in.”
“Awful pretty room,” and Helen looked round contentedly, as she finished her grape fruit. “And of a just-right temperature. I’d like to stay here a week.”
“You may get your wish,” and Mrs. Doremus smiled at her, “if this snow keeps on, I don’t see how you can go back to the city today.”
“Oh, my goodness!” cried Patty, “don’t say such a thing! Remember, Phil, when we were snowbound at that queer old house in the country?”
“Do I remember! Why, we had the time of our sweet young life up there! I never ate such chicken pie!”