"Yes, who does know?" retorted Tilly, not understanding. "But what does it mean?"
Genevieve laughed outright.
"That's just what it means—'Who knows?' The Mexicans and the cowboys use it a lot here, and when I come back I get to saying it, too."
"I should think you did," shrugged Tilly. "Well, anyhow, let's talk straight English for a while. Let's talk of Quentina. What do you suppose she's like, girls?"
"Let's guess," proposed Genevieve. "We can, you know, for Miss Jones was too sick to tell us anything, and we haven't a thing to go by but Quentina's letter, and that didn't tell much."
"All right, let's guess. Let's make a game of it," cried Tilly. "We'll each tell what we think, and then see who comes the nearest. You begin, Genevieve."
"All right. I think she's quiet and tall, and very dark like a Spaniard," announced Genevieve, weighing her words carefully.
"I think she's bookish, and maybe stupid," declared Tilly. "Her letter sounded queer."
"I think she's little, and got yellow hair and light-blue eyes," said Bertha.
"I think she's got curls—black ones—and looks lovely in red," declared Elsie Martin.