"Right, my child," commended Elfreda patronizingly, "and therein lies the mystery. I have prowled about the vicinity at odd moments ever since the men began working there, but even my powers of penetration have failed."
"Since your curiosity has reached such a height, why don't you ask Miss Wilder to tell you the whys and wherefores of this startling affair?" teased Emma Dean. "I never realized until now what a mysterious process digging a cellar is."
"It isn't the process that's mysterious, it is the object of the process," declared Elfreda, with great dignity.
"Not everyone 'can see' either," interposed Emma innocently.
"The Briggs-Dean rapid-fire conversation team in an entirely new line of specialties," proclaimed Sara Emerson. "Secure front seats for the performance."
"There isn't going to be any performance," flung back Emma. "This is merely a friendly chat, but it ends here and now. I don't propose to court publicity. Come on, Sherlock, let us hie us to the lemonade bowl away from this madding crowd."
Sherlock offered his free arm—his memoirs were securely tucked under the other—and strolled nonchalantly toward the punch bowl, looking as though he were towing an animated rag-bag.
"Doesn't Emma Dean look too ridiculous for words?" laughed Arline Thayer to Grace.
"'Never too late to mend,'" quoted Grace. "I wonder how she ever happened to hit upon the idea. She is a delightful girl, isn't she?"
"Emma Dean? One of the nicest girls at Overton." Arline spoke with enthusiasm. "When I came to Morton House as a freshman, Emma was there, too. I had the most appalling case of the blues, for I didn't for one moment believe that I should ever like college. Emma had the next room to mine. She was so cheerful and said such funny things that I forgot all about my blues."