The other girls all seemed to be out of doors—the morning was too delightful to spend time unpacking and hanging up clothes.
Once in her room Dorothy buried her face in the couch cushions. The previous excitement had been enough—this new phase of the trouble was too much.
“Now see here,” began Tavia, “don’t you mind one thing which that crowd says or does. Jean Faval, of course, is at the bottom of the whole thing, and she has organized a club they call the ‘T’s.’ It’s secret, of course, and no one knows what the ‘T’ is for, except the members. She met you this morning with Mr. Armstrong, and that was just pie for her. They’re out under the buttonball tree now, planning and plotting. I’ll wager they are after my scalp,” and she shook her head of bronze hair significantly. “Failing with the hair tonic, they want the whole head.”
“But to be accused of—why, Tavia! I cannot see how the little incident could be made into such a story,” sobbed Dorothy.
“Little incident! You running a lunch cart! Why it’s the very biggest thing that ever happened in Glen. I am going to apply for the position permanently.”
Tavia went over to her dresser, and “slicked” things up some. She missed something, but did not at once speak of it, thinking it had been mislaid.
“I feel as if my reputation had been run over with a big six cylinder car,” Dorothy said, trying to cheer up. “It hurts all over.”
“Say,” Tavia broke out, “did you take your picture from here? Now own up. Did you give it to David Armstrong?”
“Tavia, don’t be a goose,” Dorothy said. “What would I want with my own picture, after I had given it to you?”
“Well, it’s gone, and I could have sworn I put it right here,” indicating a spot on the dresser. “If I don’t find it——”