George stared at her. “Say, you certainly look swell when you’re dolled up.”
“Well, it’s the best I can do now,” deprecated Betty. “I borrowed a pair of your slippers though—woolly ones. That is, I s’pose they’re yours?”
“Glad to have you wear ’em.” George’s eyes were still glued to Betty’s pretty face when Dorothy broke in.
“Look here, we’ll have to get down to business. George—listen to me. Betty won’t melt, you know—”
“Oh, I think you’re terrible—” interrupted Betty.
Her friend paid no attention, but kept on talking to George. “Do you really think they’ve gone?”
He nodded. “I’m pretty sure they have—that is, for the present. You can’t do a whole lot when your hide is full of salt. I’ll bet they’re kiting down the road right now. Maybe they’ll stop in at the Robinson’s or somewhere and get a lift to Stamford or Ridgefield or wherever they came from. They may have some pals about here, of course. I sort of gathered that they weren’t working on their own—that there was somebody in back of them.”
“Well, at least we can count on a breather. Let’s go in the library and turn on the light. I’m tired of standing about in this hall and I want to dry out by the fire.”
In the library, George pushed a couple of easy chairs before the comforting blaze. Dorothy cast aside her slicker and helmet and dropped into one of them. She kicked off her sodden shoes and stretching her legs toward the warmth, drew forth a comb and proceeded to make herself neat. George perched on the arm of Betty’s chair, and the two stared at the flames without speaking.
At last Dorothy put her comb away, turned to George and broke the silence.