“Almost too plain, if you want my opinion,” Dorothy said thoughtfully. “There’s no use guessing at this stage of the game.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Oh, nothing much. Can you hear what they’re saying in the next room?”
“They seem to be having an argument—but it’s not polite to listen—”
“Polite, your grandmother! I’d listen if I could—but all I get is a mumble-jumble. I vote we go back to the kitchen. I want my supper. I’ll feel better when I’ve eaten. This house gives me the jim-jams for some reason.”
“Me, too,” Betty admitted ungrammatically. “Fancy being alarmed at the sound of a doorbell!”
“My word—and likewise cheerio!” Dorothy turned the flash on her friend. “How do you get that way, Betty? Been reading the British poets or something?”
Betty blinked in the glare. “Turn it off. No, I haven’t. Don’t you remember the movies last night? The English Duke in that picture—” She broke off suddenly and caught at Dorothy’s arm. “Listen—Dot, listen!” she whispered.
From the rear of the house came a muffled pounding.
Dorothy shook her off. “I’ll dot you a couple, if you take liberties with my name,” she snapped. “And for goodness’ sake, don’t hold on to me that way, and stop that listen stuff! This isn’t an earthquake—somebody’s at the back door, and I’m going to see who it is!”