“That was quite an experience,” grinned Helen. “We almost became celebrities.”
“Just another fool stunt of the publicity office, but I guess it didn’t do any harm,” admitted Helen’s father.
Half an hour’s ride took them to a comfortable, sprawling bungalow set well back on a side street.
“I’ve been living in an apartment, but when I got the idea of bringing you back with me I leased this place,” Henry Thorne told his wife and daughter. “I’ve installed George, my negro cook, and there ought to be something in the way of lunch ready for us.”
The bungalow was delightful with a tremendous living room clear across the front and two long wings to the rear, one housing the dining room, kitchen and servants’ quarters while the other contained a series of bedrooms with baths between. At the rear, flanked by a high hedge, was a medium sized swimming pool with a diving tower.
“Dad, this is wonderful,” exclaimed Helen. “I don’t care now whether I ever get before a camera. I’ll be happy right here, spending my days in that pool.”
Mrs. Thorne took charge, made instant friends of George, the smiling cook, and assigned the bedrooms, Janet and Helen sharing one large room with twin beds. It was at the very rear of the house with a door that almost opened onto the pool, which pleased the girls.
“Clean up and we’ll have lunch. George informs me that it will be ready in fifteen minutes,” said Helen’s mother.
“How about a swim?” asked Helen.
“What in?” asked Janet.