"Very well; but I wish you would wait until I finish my letter, then you can post it on your way there."
"Did Nora bake chocolate cake to-day?" asked Marjorie irrelevantly.
"Yes."
There was a rush of light feet from the room. Three minutes later Marjorie returned, a huge piece of chocolate layer cake in her hand.
"It's the best ever," she declared between bites.
By the time the cake was eaten the letter was ready.
"Hurry, dear," her mother called after her; "we shall have an early dinner."
It did not recur to Marjorie until within sight of the house where Constance lived that she was an uninvited guest. What a queer-looking little house it was! Long ago it had been painted a pale gray with white trimmings, but now it was a dingy, hopeless color that defied description. A child's dilapidated tricycle stood on the rickety porch, which was approached by a flight of three unstable-looking steps.
Her mind centered upon her errand, Marjorie paid small attention to her surroundings. She bounded up the steps, searching with alert eyes for a bell. Finding none she doubled her fist to knock, but paused suddenly with upraised arm. From within the house came the vibrant notes of a violin mingled with the soft accompaniment of a piano.
"Schubert's 'Serenade,'" breathed Marjorie, delightedly, lowering her arm. "I simply must listen."