“Who’s there?” she demanded.
A sharp girlish voice replied imperatively, “It’s me! Open the door quick!”
“You’ve made a mistake in the room,” returned the girl inside. “This is mine.”
“Is it, indeed!” shrilly. “Well, I guess if you don’t open this door pretty quick, I’ll have you sent flying!”
At which threat in the sharp voice, the girl inside opened the door and viewed in astonishment the stormy-eyed young person who entered, beginning to pull out hairpins from her lofty pompadour as she came. “What did you think you were? A lay-over?” she demanded scornfully.
The other girl, her fair hair falling in ripples about her bare neck and arms, closed the door and regarded the newcomer with wide eyes.
“Is it your room, too?” she asked.
“Yes, it is,” snapped the other, “and I hope it won’t be any more disagreeable for you than it is for me.”
“Oh—oh—of course not,” returned the fair one. “I only thought it was so small—and the bed is so narrow—and I didn’t know—”
“Well,” returned the other, somewhat mollified, and with a yawn, “I saw down in the dining-room to-night that you were a green-horn. We’re mighty lucky not to be in a bigger room with half-a-dozen girls. My name’s Miss Hickey. What’s yours?”