“I can’t imagine. Do let me see his letter,” begged Mary. “He must be no end of fun.”
“He’s a worse tease than you,” said Betty, knocking on her door.
“Come in,” called Helen Chase Adams eagerly. “Betty, would you please hook my collar, and would one of you see what time it really is? I don’t like to depend too much on my watch.”
“She’ll be at least ten minutes too early,” sighed Betty, when Helen had finally departed in a flutter of haste. “And see this room! But I oughtn’t to complain,” she added, beginning to clear up the dresser. “I’m always leaving it like this myself; but someway I don’t expect it of Helen.”
“Who asked her to dinner to-day?” inquired Mary Brooks. She had been sitting in a retired corner, vastly enjoying the unusual spectacle of Helen Adams in a frenzy of excitement.
“Why, I don’t know. I never thought to ask,” said Betty, straightening the couch pillows. “I only hope she’ll have as good a time as she expects.”
“Poor youngster!” said Mary. “Wish I’d asked Laurie to jolly her up a bit.”
It is to be presumed that these fears were groundless, since the bell was ringing for five o’clock vespers when Helen came back. Betty was sitting at her desk pretending to write letters, but really trying to decide whether she should say anything to Eleanor apropos of her remarks about Emily Davis, and if so, whether she should do it now. Mary Brooks curled up on Betty’s couch, dividing her attention between Jack Burgess’s picture and a new magazine.
“Had a good time, didn’t you?” she remarked sociably when Helen appeared.
“Oh, yes,” said Helen happily. “You see I don’t go out very often. Were you ever at the Westcott House for dinner?”