“What a strange question!” exclaimed Grace Carter. “I don’t see why she should care where we go to dinner.”
“Perhaps she had some plan or other on hand herself that she wanted us to take part in,” suggested Mollie.
Bab was silent.
“By the way,” exclaimed Ruth, “did you know I received a letter to-day from darling Olive Prescott? She and Jack have arrived in Paris, and have set up housekeeping in the dearest little flat in the Rue de Varennes. They live on the top floor, and Jack has the front room for his studio. Of course Olive declares Jack is the best husband in the world. He is painting Olive’s portrait for the Paris Salon, and working desperately hard so as to have it finished by April. Come, let’s go to bed.”
Just as Barbara was dropping off to sleep Ruth gave her a little shake.
“Tell me Barbara Thurston, what Marian De Lancey Smythe said to you in the hall!”
“I told you, child,” murmured Bab hesitatingly.
“Honor bright, did you tell us everything, Bab Thurston?”
“No-o-o, not everything,” admitted Bab. “This is exactly what Marian said: ‘Barbara are you going to dine with the countess to-morrow night?’ ‘Yes,’ I replied. Then she said: ‘You had better not go. But if you do go, come home early, and don’t ask me the reason, why.”
“We’ll go, sure as fate!” exclaimed Ruth. “No matter what Marian says.”