“I bet he wasn’t a chauffeur, then,—must have been one of the family. You don’t pay chauffeurs to boss you.”
“Listen to Sherlock Holmes! What did he look like, Diane?” Cathalina was much interested.
“I couldn’t tell how he looked, except cross, as Eloise says. He had a cap and goggles, you know, and was big and tall—and that’s all.”
“‘Pome’ by Diane Percy: ‘Big and tall, and that’s all.’”
“I can only talk in rhyme,” simpered Diane in falsetto.
Eloise took up the story again: “Miss Randolph came out, then, looking worried, and we went on to our suite. I think she is very handsome, as Diane says, but there is something different about her,—I don’t know what it is, something that isn’t in her face and—O, I can’t tell what I do mean, but I’m sure I shall never try to make her acquaintance.”
“But perhaps that is the very thing she needs,” said Cathalina. “I know how you feel when you are shy and sort of proud too,—”
“O, you, Cathalina,” said Isabel, “you aren’t a bit like her. Your face is sweet and hers isn’t.”
Cathalina then told of her experience in the reception room. “We must be nice, anyway, and as good to her as possible, as she’ll let us be. I have a funny feeling that I’ve seen her somewhere or some one with the same features, but I can’t remember.”
“Who’s her roommate?”