“I hope,” said Edith, a little anxiously, “that she will go home to her mother to-day. I know that she is needed at home. I can’t think why she should he allowed to wander around Lynn.”
“Well, we have n’t time to talk about Angelina now,” said Frances, a trifle impatiently,—she never had been deeply interested in the Rosas. “Luncheon is served, and we must go in now.”
“Luncheon,” cried Nora, “I was afraid that you would n’t give us any. I’m half famished. In fact, I thought that I might have to eat up everything in Mrs. Moriarty’s shop—or, rather, her son’s shop.”
“Oh, Nora!” cried Frances, “you were n’t in that shop, were you? Why no one buys anything there except the coachmen and gardener and such people. How did you happen to go in?”
“Why we were invited by Mrs. Moriarty herself; how else could we have telephoned? We had n’t one in our pockets, Miss Propriety.”
Frances had an even smaller sense of humor than had Edith, and Nora and Brenda usually had to temper their remarks to the understanding of the latter. With Frances they were apt to be more impatient. But to-day she was the hostess, as Nora fortunately recalled in time, and during the remainder of the luncheon hour she was careful to follow the lead of Frances and Belle in conversation. Yet at times, when their conversation took a turn that seemed altogether too grown-up and dignified for the occasion, she could not resist exchanging an occasional
