“What I don’t understand,” said Babbie, carefully barricading herself from a storm of pillows, “is why a person who doesn’t want to see another person as long as she lives should invite another person’s father to take her to a boat-race, knowing that another person will be there too.”
“Your English is mixed,” retorted Babe with all her customary levity, “but if you mean me and Mr. Morton and the race in London, why I promised to ask him ages ago, and I wouldn’t back down now just because John and I were silly and quarreled. John was your friend to begin with, and if he tags his father to the race you can look after him, I guess.”
“I don’t look after men; I let them look after me,” announced Babbie with dignity.
“Don’t squabble,” said Madeline. “I’ve got an idea. I believe Arthur Lestrange Trevelyan, or Lestrange Arthur Trevelyan, is all right. Think how black things looked for Dick to-day, with only the thin excuse of having made a mistake about the automobiles. If Edmond had been a bad-tempered person and the police sergeant had been incorruptible, they’d certainly have arrested him.”
“And Betty too,” put in Babbie. “Think of poor innocent little Betty’s being arrested!”
“He must be all right—Mr. Trevelyan, I mean,” suggested Babe, “because as soon as John got your letter, he and Mr. Benson would have gone to work to find out about him, and if he hadn’t been all right they’d certainly have written to us before this.”
“Well, I’m going to bed,” said Betty, yawning vigorously. “I’m sleepy, and if your cousin is going to take us automobiling all day to-morrow and comes for us as early as he said, we’ve got to be up betimes.”
“Too true,” agreed Madeline. “But please don’t hold us responsible for the strenuous life we’re leading. It’s all your fault, Miss B. A.”
“I didn’t do a single thing I could help,” protested Betty.
But Madeline insisted gaily that it had all been a preconceived plan on Betty’s part to make her dominant interest fill most space in the annals of “B. A.’s Abroad.”