“If you are real good, I may give you a piece of my toast,” Lucile promised.
“No, don’t, Lucy; it will only spoil his dinner,” said Mrs. Payton. “Dancing does give you an appetite, though, doesn’t it?” she added, at which Lucile smiled to herself, for it was very, very long since she had seen her mother unbend so far.
“If dancing will do it,” she decided, on her way to the kitchen, “we’ll dance from here to Jericho,” and the firm lines of her mouth showed that she meant it.
At half past four Phil put on his hat and announced his intention of going round for the girls.
“You needn’t stop for Jessie,” Lucile called after him; “nor for Evelyn either, for that matter. All their folks are coming along to see us off.”
“I’m going anyway,” he replied, briefly, and Lucile called gaily after him, “There’s a reason,” and shut the door before he could retort.
Mrs. Payton met her in the hall.
“Better get your hat and coat on, Lucy. It’s almost time to start.”
As Lucile ran lightly up the stairs and into her room, her heart beat fast and her face flamed with excitement.
“We’re going, we’re going!” she sang, as she slipped into her coat and pulled her hat—a perky little affair with a blue bow at the side, that held in place a black wing set 62 at an aggravating angle—down over one eye and then surveyed herself critically.