“It seems to me,” Agnes said with dignity, “that you are becoming a regular connoisseur in feminine loveliness. How is your friend, Nalbro Hastings?”
“She’s a whole lot better than she has been since she left Boston,” declared Neale cheerfully.
“What do you mean by that?” asked Ruth, while Agnes stared at him. “She has not been ill.”
“I’ll say she has!” declared Neale, broadly smiling. “Almost dumb. Very sad case.”
“I’d like to know what you mean, you horrid fellow,” Agnes complained. “I know there must be some joke about it, but I don’t understand.”
“Allow me,” Neale said, rising and bowing very low to Agnes. “I have here an invitation from Miss Hastings.” But the note he drew from his pocket he presented to Ruth. “Verbally, I am particularly to urge ‘that pretty Miss Agnes’ to attend afternoon tea as a special favor to Miss Hastings.”
“Oh!” ejaculated Agnes.
Ruth nodded, but seemed puzzled.
“Yes. That is what she asks—and very prettily. That all of us, not forgetting Tess and Dot, will come to her suite at five, with Luke and Neale.”
“Well, of all things!” gasped Agnes.