It was with a real feeling of regret that Cordie, hearing her own station announced, realized that their visit was at an end.
Five minutes later, brimming over with excitement, she burst into Lucile’s room.
“Wait!” exclaimed Lucile as she read in Cordie’s eyes the story of some thrilling experience. “You’ve had an adventure. So have I. Let’s not spoil ’em in the telling. Let’s set the stage for a story. You haven’t had a bite to eat, have you?”
“No—o,” Cordie admitted, “not a single bite. I’d forgotten.”
“Neither have I. You’ll find a loaf of bread and a slice of cream pimento cheese in the upper dresser drawer. There are some vanilla wafers, too. You make the sandwiches and I’ll have the cocoa piping hot in a minute. No, I’ll tell you, let’s dress for it first.”
Fifteen minutes later they sat in their bright colored dressing gowns, sipping the delicious hot beverage and hungrily devouring sandwiches.
“Now,” said Lucile after the last sandwich had vanished and fresh cups had been poured, “now’s the time for spinning yarns. You tell yours first.”
With many a gesture and dramatic pause, Cordie told of her startling discovery, her wild dash through the throng, her descent into the depths of the earth, and of the strange doings down there beneath the surface of the city’s streets.
“Yes,” said Lucile, sipping her chocolate thoughtfully as Cordie’s narrative ended, “that surely was the young man who attempted to carry you away when you fainted in the Art Museum. Dear little girl, you must be careful, very careful indeed. You must never be left alone; never! Never! Even if the Mystery Woman beckons or the Lady of the Christmas Spirit clinks her gold in my very ears, I will not desert you again.”
It was a very warm and friendly hand that Lucile felt tucked into her own, and a suspiciously husky voice that said: