Billie must have been staring more than she knew, for suddenly Mrs. Danvers—it seemed absurd to call her “Mrs.” she looked so like a girl—turned upon her and took her laughingly by the shoulders.
“So you’re Billie Bradley,” she said, her hazel eyes searching Billie’s brown ones. “Connie said you were the most popular girl at Three Towers and that all the girls loved you. I can’t say that I blame them, my dear,” giving Billie’s flushed cheek a gay little pat. “I’m not very sure but what I may do it myself. Now here——” And she went on to give directions while Billie followed her with wondering eyes. How could a woman who was old enough to be Connie’s mother look so absolutely and entirely like a girl of twenty? She was not even dignified like most of the mothers Billie knew—she did not even try to be. Connie treated her as she would an older and much loved sister. One only needed to be with them three minutes to see that mother and daughter adored each other and were the very best chums in the world. And right then and there Billie began adoring too.
“Now I’ll run downstairs and get something on the table for you girls to eat, for I know you must be starving,” said Mrs. Danvers, or rather “Connie’s mother,” as Billie called her from that day on. “Don’t stop to fix up, girls, for there won’t be a soul here to-night but Daddy and me—and we don’t care. Hurry now. If you are not downstairs by the time I have dinner on the table I’ll eat it all myself, every bit.” With that she was gone into the next room, leaving a trail of laughter behind her that made Billie’s heart laugh in sympathy.
“Connie,” she said, sitting down on the edge of the bed and regarding her chum soberly as she opened her bag and drew out a brush and comb, “I’m simply crazy about your mother. She’s so young and pretty and—and—happy. Does she ever do anything but laugh?”
“Not often,” said Connie, adding with a little chuckle: “But when she does stop laughing you’d better look out for 'breakers ahead,' as Uncle Tom says. Mother’s French you know, and she has a temper—about once a year. But for goodness sake, stop talking, Billie, and get ready. You’ve got a patch of dirt under one eye. What’s that I smell? It’s clam chowder!”
“Clam chowder,” repeated Billie weakly. “Are you sure it’s clam chowder, Connie?”
“Yes, clam chowder,” repeated Connie firmly.