"That" was the voice of some one in the lower hall inquiring if Miss Brown was in.
"It's that—that impertinent Maurice Whitlow!" whispered Estelle to Ruth and Alice. "I thought I could escape him here. Oh, what shall I do?"
"I'll say you are not at home," returned Ruth, in her best "stage society" manner, and, sweeping down the hall, she met the maid who was coming up to tell Miss Brown there was a caller for her below.
"Tell him Miss Brown is not at home," said Ruth.
"Very well," and the maid smiled understandingly.
"Ah! not at home? Tell her I shall call again," came in drawling tones up the stairway, for it was warm, and doors and windows were open.
"Little—snip!" murmured Estelle. "I'm so glad I didn't have to see him. He's a pest—all the while wanting to take me out and buy ice-cream sodas. He's just starting in at the movies, and he thinks he's a star already. Oh! but don't you just love the guns and horses?" she asked impulsively.
"Well, I can't say that I do," answered Ruth. "I like quieter plays."
"I don't!" cried Alice. "The more excitement the better I like it. I can do my best then."
"So can I," said Estelle. Then they fell to talking of the work, and of many other topics.