If only they would find the coat! Or if they would only give up looking for it! Every second seemed an hour to the girl afraid to breathe lest she be discovered.
“Queer,” said Hazel’s mother, replacing some of the fallen garments.
“Now, mother,” said Hazel, leaving the closet and going out into the room to better emphasize her argument, “you know I don’t mind Gloria being here, but she positively must not use my room. I have spent too much time—”
“Do please be quiet, Hazel. Gloria won’t want to use it. She is perfectly satisfied with the other. But we just had to pacify your father.” There was a tone of helplessness in Mrs. Towers’ voice. Her daughter sighed. They were evidently both much confused.
“But this closet is all on end—”
A gasped “Oh” almost escaped Gloria. She clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle it.
“There’s the horn,” exclaimed Hazel. “Mother, I’ve got to go. But mail me that coat and a couple of extra white waists—”
“Hazel, your father insists I shall tell Gloria,” interrupted the mother.
“Now, mother!” this was in complete deprecation. “Do whatever you think best, but don’t worry me to death—”
“But I have to be worried to death—”