"Never!" affirmed Linda, surveying the breakfast tray which she and Dot had been luxuriously enjoying. "I don't care for cold tea and crackers as a steady diet."
"But what shall we do about this visitor?" persisted her companion. "The clerk's still waiting for our reply."
"Oh, tell him to send her up, I suppose. After all, the poor girls have to earn a living."
As Dot gave the message over the telephone, Linda surveyed the room with a frown of distaste.
"It's not so neat, Dot—to receive a caller," she remarked. "Maybe we ought to have gone downstairs."
"Think I better try to call him back?"
"No, I guess it's too late now—the girl's probably on the elevator by this time. Anyhow, it really doesn't matter. Newspaper women are usually awfully good sports."
To their amazement and chagrin, it was not a reporter to whom, a moment later, Dot opened the door. A beautifully dressed woman stood before them, smiling nervously. It was Mrs. Carter—Jackson Carter's mother!
"How do you do, Mrs. Carter!" exclaimed Dot. "Do come in—if you can pardon the appearance of this room."