“Then why not tell her instead of me?”
“Because,” said Dorothy simply, “you always know what to do. Miss Dick and Kittie Carson wouldn’t know. They’d never find her and never get her to come back. Isn’t it very awful indeed to run away and be an actress, Betty?”
Betty laid down her umbrella, wrapped her coat around Dorothy, and with one anxious glance in the direction of the supper that she was relentlessly abandoning bent her energies to settling her responsibilities toward Frisky Fenton.
“Does any one else know where Frisky has gone?” she asked.
“I think maybe her roommates do. She came and told me this morning, and gave me a blue ribbon for a keepsake. She said she couldn’t bear to go without any good-byes to her chums. She said, ‘Don’t tell any one,’ but of course she didn’t mean you. She knows I tell you everything since——”
“And where has she gone?”
“To the Junction, to join that company that was acting here all last week. They’re going ’way out west after to-night. That’s why you must hurry.”
“Why on earth did she do that, Dottie?”
“’Cause her stepmother was so unsympathetic,” explained Dorothy, “at Easter vacation, you know, about a new hat, and a party, and going to see Miss Dwight in Miss Madeline’s play. And yesterday Miss Dick scolded her and kept her in to write French verbs. So she just decided to go off and be an actress.”
“And why do you think I can get her to come back?”