She went out into the hall and another report from above shook the windows in their frames.
Betty, wild-eyed with fright, rushed into the bright arc of Dorothy’s flash light.
“What on earth is it?” she cried in very evident alarm.
“Shotgun,” said Dorothy tersely. “If those yells meant anything, I guess we can take it that somebody’s been hit.”
Then she noticed that Betty’s left hand held an open compact, while in her right she clutched a small rouge puff. Her ash-gold hair which she wore long had become unknotted and hung halfway down her back. Her petite figure drooped with weariness.
“Gracious, Betty! How in the wide world did you ever get rouge on the end of your nose? You’re a sight!”
“Well, you turned out the light—” Miss Mayo’s tone was indignant, as she rubbed the end of her nose with a damp handkerchief. “I think I’ll run upstairs and spruce up a bit.”
Dorothy looked at her and laughed.
“Come on up with me,” suggested Betty. “You don’t look so hot yourself.”
“No, you run along and pander to your vanity, my child. When you’ve finished, why don’t you go into the kitchen and make us a batch of fudge—that would be just the thing!”