"Goodness, she's got it, too," sighed Grace drawlingly.
"What?" asked Mollie briskly, "I'm always interested in my symptoms—"
"It isn't a disease, you goose," drawled Grace. "Unless," she added, as a second thought, "you can call insanity a disease—"
"Well, you ought to know," retorted Mollie, as she proceeded to use the pickle fork to advantage. "What does your doctor say?"
"Now who's bringing war into the party, I'd like to know?" asked Will, helping himself to his ninth biscuit.
"Goodness, that's just the usual thing," Betty explained, looking prettier, so Allen thought, than ever before with the background of lacy green to set off her bright coloring. "If they don't behave like that we know they're sick or something. Do have another biscuit, Roy. Goodness," and she stared round-eyed down into the empty space where the biscuits had been, "they're every one gone! Who did eat them all?"
"Well, you needn't look at me," said Frank in an aggrieved tone. "Will's the fellow you've got to watch."
Will was about to utter some scathing retort when Grace, who had gotten up to shake the crumbs from her dress and had walked down toward the road, suddenly called to them. It was such an excited, urgent call that they left everything and came running.
"What—" began Betty.
"It was the motorcyclist!" cried Grace, her face flaming. "I couldn't have been mistaken, because I caught a good view of his face."