"Here, Colney; here's your supper."
"Oh, thank you, Grace," said Colney, looking up for a moment. "But I can't, you know. Both my hands are full, you see."
"Then open your mouth," commanded the Scapegoat, in tones of authority.
Colney obeyed meekly, and Grace stood over her, feeding her like a baby with the choicest morsels, and now and then casting a glance over her shoulder at the others. Grace's gaiety was fitful to-night, certainly. When she first came in she had been the life of the party; now, as she stood there in the corner, her brow was overcast, her eyes gloomy. What ailed the Lone Wolf?
What were they saying over there? They, at least, were at the very height of glee, breaking into gusts of giggling, into whisperings ending in squeaks and smothered screams.
"To-morrow night? Hurrah! Through Broadway, of course."
"Freshy? Oh, Freshy won't say anything. She wouldn't dare to, in the first place."
"She'd dare fast enough," said Viola. "She isn't afraid of anything, Freshy isn't. But she's safe, she won't say anything."
"What's all this?" demanded the Scapegoat, coming back with the empty plate. "Plans? Does one hear them?"
"The apples are all gone," said Kitty Green. "We're going for some to-morrow night, Goat. You'll go, too, of course?"