"In for a penny, in for a pound," she observed, agreeably. "Oh, darling Uncle Thomas, kindly lend us a million. We need it, oh, we need it—every hour we need it!"
"Let's set one day aside for shopping," was Alma's bright suggestion; she felt that this would be her element. "We'll go into the city in the morning, get everything done by noon, lunch at Mailliard's and then go to a matinée. I haven't seen a play since Papa took us to see Humpty Dumpty, when Nance and I were little things."
"I've got eighty-three cents," said Nancy. "I'd like to see the color of your money, ma'am, before we do any gallivanting."
"Well,—I'm not going to sit here gazing at that cake another minute,—please give me a slice, Nancy, sugar-pie, lambkin,—just a wee little scrooch of it," begged Alma, snuffing the handsome chocolate masterpiece of Nancy's culinary skill. Nancy took off a crumb and gave it to her, which elicited a wail of indignation from Alma.
"Well, here you are. And it'll give you a nice tummy-ache, too," predicted Nancy, cutting off a generous slice. "Good heavens—there's the door-bell, Mother!" She stopped, knife in hand and listened, petrified. "Who on earth can be coming here at this time of night, and all of us in our dressing-gowns. Alma, you're the most nearly dressed of all of us. Here, pin up your hair. There it goes again. Fly!"
Alma seized a handful of hairpins, and thrusting them into her hair as she went, ran out of the room.
Nancy and her mother listened with eyebrows raised.
"Must be a letter or something," Nancy surmised. "You don't suppose—it couldn't be——"
Alma forestalled her conjectures, whatever they might have been, by entering the room with her face shining and an opened letter in her hand.
"It's an invitation, Nancy," she beamed. "Isn't that exciting? Elise Porterbridge wants us to come to a 'little dance she's giving next Friday night.' And the chauffeur is waiting for an answer."