“Letter? Let’s see!” Arden reluctantly closed the book she had been reading, uncurled herself from the depths of the chair, and came out in the hall to Terry, who said:
“It just came, and it’s postmarked New York. Look at the size of the envelope. I wish Sim would answer!” Terry repeated peevishly.
“Of course, you could go up, you know,” Arden suggested with a superior air.
Terry did not answer but tapped her foot impatiently, bringing into play a shining black patent-leather opera pump that was vaguely reflected in the polished floor beneath. Terry wore lovely shoes.
Arden took the letter and was examining it, front and back, feminine fashion. A leading jurist once said that if a woman was given a letter or any piece of paper she would, without fail, turn it over and look on the other side. Arden, however, was rewarded, for on the reverse, in large red letters, was the name “Rita Keene.”
“It’s from Dot’s mother,” exclaimed Arden. “I suppose it says Dot can’t come. But I should think she’d be glad to have her daughter visit such lovely girls as we are.” Premeditated sarcasm here.
“Are we lovely girls?” inquired a voice from the stair landing above. “Seems to me I heard a little shouting.”
“Sim! Where were you? I’ve been shouting for ages!” Terry announced.
“I know. I was phoning. I just called Ellery’s. I thought we could go for a ride through Jockey Hollow. It’s such a nice day, and we have the marketing done and everything.” Sim, a rather small light-haired girl, already dressed in riding clothes, was descending the stairs as she spoke.
“Open this letter first. It’s addressed to you. From Dot’s mother.” Terry handed over the missive as Arden made this demand on Sim.