“Yes. Some women.”
“Who are they?” asked the girl, quickly. “What’s their names?”
The thunder was rolling away now, but the rain was still beating down in such volume that the girls could not venture forth. Bobby would have gotten wet in running around to the girls’ entrance.
“Why,” she said, studying the Gypsy’s face in a puzzled way. “There’s Miss Gould.”
“Gould? That’s not her whole name, is it?” asked this curious girl.
“Miss Marjorie Gould.”
“Say it slow—say the letters,” commanded the Gypsy girl.
Bobby, much amazed, began:
“M-a-r-j-o-r-i-e G-o-u-l-d.”
The strange girl shook her head. Bobby saw that she had been counting the letters of Miss Gould’s name on her fingers, and she asked: