She heard a click, and a voice with a French accent answered her.
“Mrs. Van Rensselaer is having a shampoo and a wave now. Could you leave a message?”
“I’m afraid not,” said Bessie, desperately. “Do you think she could see me if I called there in about half an hour? Just for five minutes?”
“She might,” said the maid. “You’d have to be very brief, she’s giffing a dinner tonight. She’ll not haf mooch time.”
“I’ll be brief,” said the girl, with relief in her voice.
“Who shall I say called?”
“Oh, Miss Chapparelle. But she won’t know me.”
Bessie was waiting in a small reception room to the right of the front door when the maid came down and eyed her from head to foot, appraisingly. She was sorry she had not waited to dress instead of coming straight up from the office.
“Mrs. Van Rensselaer says she don’t know you. Who are you?”
Bessie’s cheeks were burning. Now that she was here she felt that she had intruded, and yet her conscience would not let her run away with her errand uncompleted. She stood her ground with her gravest little manner of self-respecting confidence.