"The March Hare?" queried Patricia, much elated by this exhilarating society, and wishing more ardently than ever that she were fitted for this fascinating class.
Griffin nodded. "Tabby March, you know. The young woman who paints pussies. Used to go here three years ago, before she'd arrived. She was a wild one, I can tell you."
"Do you mean Elizabeth March, who got the Tassel prize this year?" asked Patricia in surprise. "Why, I saw her last week at the exhibition and she was awfully prim looking."
Griffin chuckled. "It's fame that tames them, mark my words. Soon's they get known they grow into a pattern. Ready now. Let her r-r-r-rip!"
Elinor intercepted them at the bottom just as they were preparing for a third flight.
"I've been looking for you everywhere, Miss Pat," she said radiantly. "There's going to be a spread in the cave, and I've phoned home to Judy not to wait for us, as we won't be there for dinner."
"Am I asked?" demanded Patricia with eager eyes.
"Of course, or I'd have sent word by you instead of phoning," said Elinor quickly. "Come along down, both of you. Everything is ready, and Margaret Howes is making Welsh rarebit just specially for you—she heard you say you adored it. Hurry, hurry."