“Hold on,” cried Betty, laughing, “don’t go too far.  Not everybody is interested in baby togs!”

“I s’pose not,” said Patty, smiling.  “All right, cut out the Baby booth.”

“No,” spoke up Azalea, “let’s have it.  Everybody knows a baby to give presents to.  And the little caps and things are so pretty.”

“Good for you, Zaly,” cried Patty; “we’ll have it, and you and I will run it, and Fleurette shall be the presiding genius, and sit enthroned among the fairy wares!  Oh, it will be lovely!”

“Yes, do have it,” agreed Betty.  “It will be a screaming success with Fleurette in it!”

“And if you want such things,” Azalea went on, losing her diffidence, “I can get a lot of Indian things from home,—­baskets,—­you know,—­and leather, and beaded things.”

“Fine, Zaly!” and Elise smiled at her.  “We do want those,—­real ones,—­they always sell.”

They went on planning, all working in harmony, and each full of suggestions, which the others approved or criticised, in frank, friendly fashion.

Then Janet appeared to call Azalea to the telephone, and the girl looked up, surprised.  She blushed scarlet, and hurried from the room.

“Who could have called her?” said Elise; “she doesn’t know any one you don’t know,—­does she, Patty?”

“No; but she knows lots of our friends.  Somebody is probably asking her to go somewhere.”

None of them tried to listen, but the telephone was in the next room and Azalea’s voice had a peculiar carrying quality that made it difficult not to overhear snatches of her conversation.

“No,” she exclaimed, positively, “I can’t do it!  I really can’t!  I’m sorry it didn’t go right, but I can’t do it again!  It’s impossible!”

A pause, and then, again, “No, I simply can’t!  Don’t ask me—­yes, of course,—­I know,—­but, you see, they said,—­oh, I can’t tell you now,—­I’ll write,—­well, yes, I’ll do that!—­Oh, of course, I’ll be there—­but the—­the other one—­no, no, no!”

These remarks were at long intervals and disconnected, but they were clearly heard by the three in the next room, and though no one mentioned it, each thought it a strange conversation for Azalea to take part in.

Patty listened thoughtfully, feeling no hesitation in doing so, for she had only Azalea’s good at heart and wanted to know anything that might help her understand the mystery that was certainly attached to the girl.

In the first place to whom could Azalea possibly be talking in that fashion?  Moreover, her voice was troubled, and her tone was one of nervous apprehension and anxiety.

At last she returned to the group, and Patty said, pleasantly, “Who’s your friend, Zaly?”

“Nobody in particular,” and Azalea looked as if that were a question she had been dreading.

“You mean not a particular friend; but who was it?” Patty was persistent, even at risk of rousing Azalea’s wrath, for she felt she must know.