"Go in and keep the boys quiet, Amy, that's a dear," she begged, then, seeing refusal in Amy's eyes, added cajolingly: "You always look as if you came out of a bandbox yourself, you know. Please, dear—"
But Amy was already half way up the backstairs and paused to make a face at her.
"Taffy!" she cried succinctly.
Five minutes later the three girls, in various attitudes of impatience, were waiting for Grace while she still primped before the mirror.
"Just one minute more I give you," stated Mollie, regarding her wrist watch frowningly.
"Oh, Mollie, if you only wouldn't talk so much," sighed Grace, turning with an air of resignation from the mirror. "As soon as you begin to talk everything goes wrong. My gloves walk under the bed, and my hair stands on end—"
"Goodness," cried Mollie, looking injured, "anybody'd think I was a ghost. I'll stand for being called lots of things, but a phantom—Ouch! Now what's the idea?" For Grace's thumb and forefinger had come together in the fleshy part of her arm.
"I was just trying to reassure you," explained Grace innocently, as Mollie stared indignantly. "There's nothing the least bit ethereal—"
But Mollie waited to hear no more, and sped down the stairs after Betty to bounce unceremoniously in upon the boys.
"Beware!" she cried. "A lunatic is about to descend upon us!"