The girls gathered around her in great excitement.
“It’s exactly like mine,” she went on, “but there are no initials on it and mine has ‘W.H.C.’ on the end.”
“Girls,” cried Nancy, flinging her bathrobe around her with a tragic gesture, “the very last person in the world we could wish to have Billie’s suit case is the very one who has it. She’ll look at everything in it; examine the underclothes to see if they are hand-made and the stockings to see if they are silk, and—she’ll open the box of jewels and read the card of the avocat from Paris and——”
“Who? Who?” interrupted the other three.
“Who but Belle Rogers,” cried Nancy, flourishing a towel in one hand and a hair brush in the other.
“Yes, that’s her costume,” admitted Mary, laughing. “Blue chiffon with a wreath of pink roses for her hair.”
She pulled up a corner of the pale blue gauzy material and pointed to a little pink wreath which lay in the folds of the dress.
“There are her blue satin slippers, No. Two’s, absolutely not a size larger,” said Elinor, pointing to the toe of a little slipper which showed at one end of the suit case.
“This is what I get for losing the keys to everything,” groaned Billie. “Telephone for a boy, quick, some one, while I fasten this thing up. Perhaps she hasn’t opened mine yet.”
“Opened it!” echoed the others. “You don’t know her.”