“Ella, why can’t you come home with me this afternoon?—­I’m not speaking to you, Ella Saunders, you’ve not been near us since you got back!—­Mama’s so anxious to see you, Miss Ella!—­Listen, Ella, you’ve got to go with us to Tahoe; Perry will have a fit if you don’t!”

“Mama’s not well, and the kid is just home,” Miss Saunders told them all good-naturedly, in excuse.  She carried Susan off to the lunch-room, announcing herself to be starving, and ordered a lavish luncheon.  Ella Saunders really liked this pretty, jolly, little book-keeper from Hunter, Baxter & Hunter’s.  Susan amused her, and she liked still better the evidence that she amused Susan.  Her indifferent, not to say irreverent, air toward the sacred traditions and institutions of her class made Susan want to laugh and gasp at once.

“But this is a business matter,” said Miss Saunders, when they had reached the salad, “and here we are talking!  Mama and Baby and I have talked this thing all over, Susan,” she added casually, “and we want to know what you’d think of coming to live with us?”

Susan fixed her eyes upon her as one astounded, not a muscle of her face moved.  She never was quite natural with Ella; above the sudden rush of elation and excitement came the quick intuition that Ella would like a sensational reception of her offer.  Her look expressed the stunned amazement of one who cannot credit her ears.  Ella’s laugh showed an amused pleasure.

“Don’t look so aghast, child.  You don’t have to do it!” she said.

Again Susan did the dramatic and acceptable thing, typical of what she must give the Saunders throughout their relationship.  Instead of the natural “What on earth are you talking about?” she said slowly, dazedly, her bewildered eyes on Ella’s face: 

“You’re joking—–­”

“Joking!  You’ll find the Saunders family no joke, I can promise you that!” Ella said, humorously.  And again Susan laughed.

“No, but you see Emily’s come home from Fowler’s a perfect nervous wreck,” explained Miss Ella, “and; she can’t be left alone for awhile,—­partly because her heart’s not good, partly because she gets blue, and partly because, if she hasn’t anyone to drive and walk and play tennis with, and so on, she simply mopes from morning until night.  She hates Mama’s nurse; Mama needs Miss Baker herself anyway, and we’ve been wondering and wondering how we could get hold of the right person to fill the bill.  You’d have a pretty easy time in one way, of course, and do everything the Kid does, and I’ll stand right behind you.  But don’t think it’s any snap!”

“Snap!” echoed Susan, starry-eyed, crimson-cheeked. “—–­But you don’t mean that you want me?”

“I wish you could have seen her; she turned quite pale,” Miss Saunders told her mother and sister later.  “Really, she was overcome.  She said she’d speak to her aunt to-night; I don’t imagine there’ll be any trouble.  She’s a nice child.  I don’t see the use of delay, so I said Monday.”