“Oh mercy,” gasped Nora. “I have only made matters worse. She actually believes I am a prince. What ever shall I do?”
The letter lay mute and yet accusing. Nora had written Alma a first letter to prepare her for the second. True, she did not explain—but she fancied somehow Alma would come to the tree, and then perhaps they would meet and settle the whole troublesome business.
“But it’s worse, heaps worse,” sighed Nora. The call from down stairs was unanswered, for she must plan something else and that quickly.
First she thought of writing another letter with a complete and full confession, but she dreaded it, shrank from it and finally abandoned the idea.
“If it only were not Alma,” she sighed. “I would almost enjoy the joke on some of the others, but Alma!”
Nothing could be worse than this nagging at her conscience. She must conquer it. And here was the new trouble about Lucia!
“I always thought secrets were such fun, and yet these are positively—tragic,” she thought. “If only I could tell Alma about Lucia, at least that would be a comfort.”
Another call from Vita. Cousin Ted and Cousin Jerry were in now. The cheery whistle and the joyful “Whoo-hoo!” must be answered.
“Oh, dear me!” sighed Nora. “I suppose things always happen that way.” She gave Lucia’s flowers an affectionate squeeze, dropped them into her ivory box, slipped Alma’s letter under the cushion and went down to dinner.