Lily sighed; the prospect was not alluring.
“Miss Winthrop surely will get a thorough report,” she remarked. “Which girl are you going to begin with?”
“The one they called Aggie. I’m trying to think of a word to describe her. ‘Mushy’ doesn’t seem soft enough!”
“You’re cruel, Marj! How old do you think she is?”
“About sixteen. I don’t think any girl on the floor is more than seventeen.”
She was quiet for a few minutes, and Lily watched her shift her attention to another dancer. Evidently she felt that she had succeeded in summing up Aggie’s character to perfection.
Their entrances and exits were not especially noticed after that, and Marjorie began to feel at the end of the sixth dance that their presence had been entirely forgotten, when a conversation floated towards her ears which changed her opinion. She and Lily were seated on one side of a great sheaf of wheat; evidently directly behind it, two girls were consulting each other in regard to the identity of their visitors.
“Who are those dames, anyway?” demanded one voice, in a hoarse whisper. “They’ve got their noive—pullin’ the high spy act on us!”
“I’ll bet they’re here to tattle to Miss Winthrop, if they find any dirt,” returned the other. “Queenie, you’re the boss, why don’t you put ’em out?”
“How can I? It ain’t our room.”