CHAPTER XVIII
Patricia’s dinner drew to its delectable close, and coffee had already been served when the butler went to the front door and brought back a telegram on a silver tray.
Patricia picked it up and turned it over daintily.
“For you, Aurora,” she said.
Aurora with apologies tore open the envelope and read, her brow clouding.
“I hope it’s nothing serious,” said Patricia, sweetly sympathetic.
Aurora rose hurriedly. “I don’t know,” she said dubiously, and then reading: “‘Aunt Jane sick, motor over this evening if possible.’ There’s no signature. I suppose I’ll have to go.” Her lip protruded childishly. “How tiresome!”
“It’s very inconsiderate of her, isn’t it?” said Patricia. The look of incomprehension still lingered on the young girl’s face.
“I can’t see what she wants of me,” she murmured.
“Perhaps she’s seriously ill,” Patricia volunteered.