"Snow!" Every girl looked up as Janet spoke, and a ripple of laughter ran around the room.
"Janet, did you say that?"—Miss Baxter looked over her thick lens glasses and focused her pale blue eyes on Phyllis's twin. An expectant silence fell over the room.
"Yes, Miss Baxter,"—Janet rose to answer.
Miss Baxter tapped the desk with her long and callous forefinger.
"Phyllis, I am quite aware that you are answering, and I might add that this is not the place to practice silly jokes."
A sudden, though quickly suppressed, snort came from behind Sally's desk, and even Muriel, sitting beside Phyllis, giggled.
"Janet, will you please stand up and speak for yourself?" Miss Baxter peered a little over the desk, and her face set in hard, uncompromising lines.
A month had passed since the last chapter, and Janet had found a very particular place in the school for herself. Once on the right road it had been only a matter of a few days before the girls accepted her, and only a matter of weeks before she was one of the leading members of her class. Her quiet humor and downright frankness made her a welcome addition to the school, as Sally had prophesied.
She and Phyllis had discovered how easy it was to pass for each other, and further to confuse people they began to dress alike. Miss Gwynne, the history teacher, had made a mistake in their identity in class one day and had laughed about it later to the rest of the teachers. Only Miss Baxter refused to find the story amusing. She had called it impertinence, and then and there made up her mind that the same trick should never be played on her.
This morning her near-sightedness had confused her, but she was certain that they were trying to trick her and she would have none of it.
"But I am Janet, and I am standing up." Janet had caught some of Daphne's drawl and used it when she remembered to.
Miss Baxter smiled coldly but triumphantly.
"Very well, if you persist in being childish, then I will ask Phyllis to stand also."
Phyllis rose, and the girls waited breathlessly.
"Come to my desk, please," Miss Baxter continued.
They obeyed her, Phyllis slipping her watch with its tell-tale initials into her pocket as she walked beside Janet to the front of the room and up to the desk that was raised on a small platform.
Miss Baxter surveyed them with grim determination as she might have a knotty problem in mathematics. She would not give heed to the small voice within her that counseled care. Miss Baxter never gave heed to anything but her own faultless judgment.
"You," she said, pointing to Phyllis, "are Janet and you,"—she frowned at Janet—"you are Phyllis."
The twins did not reply. They stood before her in respectful silence.
"Now, Janet,"—not being contradicted, Miss Baxter continued with even more certainty—"you, I believe, spoke." She looked at Phyllis.
"I was the one that spoke," Janet said quietly. "I said 'snow.' It is snowing, you know."
"We are not discussing the weather." Miss Baxter tried to silence the room with the weight of her scorn but she failed.
"Very well then, Phyllis, you may report to me after school." She prided herself that the interview had been most successful.
"Where, Miss Baxter?" Phyllis inquired.
Miss Baxter gasped.
"Janet, is it necessary for you to interrupt?"
"I wasn't interrupting," Janet protested.
Miss Baxter looked from one to the other of them and realized very slowly and very painfully that she had made a mistake.
"Go back to your seats," she said scornfully. "The matter is too trivial to discuss."
The twins did not smile; they merely walked backed to their seats and went on studying.
The bell rang not many minutes later.
"My Aunt Jane's poll parrot, was there ever such a scream. My sides ache." Sally hugged Janet in the excess of her delight.
"Look out for rocks ahead," Eleanor warned. "Old Ducky Lucky doesn't like to be laughed at."
"Bless you," Phyllis protested; "we didn't laugh at her, did we, Jan?"
"Certainly not. I'd never do anything so disrespectful," Janet replied. "We merely answered when we were spoken to."
"While Ducky Lucky thought you were answering for each other,"—Sally chuckled. "Oh, why didn't somebody give me a twin. I never realized the thrilling possibilities until now."
"I wish you'd put on your watch again, Phyl," Rosamond said. "I feel so foolish when I look at you sometimes. You're not really alike but I never can remember which is which."
Phyllis slipped her watch on, and all the girls sighed with relief.
Daphne joined the group.
"I offer my congratulations," she drawled. "Sort of a dual role you were playing. Old Ducky Lucky was more ducky lucky-ish than ever. I could hear her even from where I sit."
"Just why do you call her Ducky Lucky?" Janet inquired. "I've always wondered."
The girls turned to Sally.
"It's a long time ago," she began, "since I christened her, but it had something to do with the way she said, 'Tut, tut'; her teeth, you know, aren't always tight and the effect sounded just like ducky lucky, and so I called her that. It's years ago, and of course they fit better now, but the name still sticks."
"Oh, Sally,"—Janet was convulsed—"she did make a noise just like that to-day, only I didn't realize."
"But I did,"—Phyllis laughed—"and it was all I could do to keep from giggling."
"Thank goodness math. is the last period; perhaps she'll have time to forget," Janet said just as the bell rang.
"Don't count on it," Rosamond called over her shoulder as she went back to her desk. "Ducky Lucky never forgets."
But mathematics class was uneventful. Miss Baxter ignored the twins, much to their delight, for they did not have to answer a single question.
"Sally, you're coming home with us this afternoon, aren't you?" Janet called as the bell rang.
"Yes; can you wait a half a shake?" Sally replied. "I have to take a paper over to Miss Simmons, but I'll meet you on the steps."
"Snow!"—Phyllis laughed as she and Janet waited for her a few minutes later—"what a lot you were responsible for to-day. Jan, whatever possessed you to say that out loud?"
Janet shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know; I suppose I was just thinking out loud. I was awfully thrilled when I saw it anyway."
"Well, I may be your twin," Phyllis mused, "but I don't pretend to understand you. We did have fun with Ducky Lucky, though, didn't we?"
"Yes, but she could have gotten beautifully even with us if she had wanted to,"—Janet laughed.
"How?" Phyllis inquired, but Sally's appearance cut short the conversation before Janet had a chance to explain.
They walked home through the park, and Phyllis insisted upon going in to see Akbar. As they entered the lion house, a small body thrust itself upon her and shouted gleefully:
"I've found you at last! I knew I would. Where have you been all this awful long time? I've looked for you every single day."
It was Donald, and Phyllis was delighted to see him. She introduced him to Sally and Janet, and then waited to hear what he would say.
Donald looked at her twin and then at her.
"Vers two of you," he said gravely.
"Vers two of you," he said gravely"Vers two of you," he said gravely
"Vers two of you," he said gravely"Vers two of you," he said gravely
"Oh, you darling!" Phyllis exclaimed. "Don't look so disturbed. We're only twins."
Donald did not reply, he was busy looking at them again.
"Do you think you could tell us apart?" Janet inquired.
He nodded solemnly.
"I fink I could," he replied, "because, you see, her eyes are like ve brownie's—all soft and queer"—he smiled engagingly at Phyllis—"but yours"—he turned to Janet—"have all kinds of funny little gold fings that make vem all shiny. But I couldn't tell you apart if you shut your eyes, I don't fink."
"Oh, Donald, you're a great boy!" Phyllis laughed.
"I think he's wonderful," Sally exclaimed, "and the most amazing part of it is, he's right, Janet has little golden flecks in the brown part of her eye and you haven't. What a way to tell you apart, but I promise not to tell."
"Well, not Ducky Lucky anyway," laughed Janet.
Donald's nurse came to look for him, and bore him off in spite of his protests.
Phyllis described her last meeting with him and confessed to Sally that it had been at his house that she had met Muriel's Chuck.
"Oh, by the way," Sally suddenly remembered, "Muriel is going to give a party. Quite an affair, I understand, and we are all going to be invited. I suppose that Mr. Chuck will be there and a lot of other boys; have you heard anything about it?"
Phyllis nodded; she and Muriel had forgotten their quarrel and were seemingly on good terms again, although Sally had taken the place in Phyllis's heart that Muriel had occupied the year before. With Janet, they made up what the rest of the girls called the jolly trio. Daphne occasionally joined them, much to Janet's delight, and many were the afternoons that they had spent together in the snuggery, a room that the twins had fitted up to suit their particular tastes at the top of the house.
They were on their way up to it to-day when Miss Carter heard them and came out of the drawing-room.
"Late for luncheon," she chided. "You will all be very ill if you are not careful. Were you kept in?" she questioned, laughing.
"No, Auntie Mogs. Phyl just decided she had to see Akbar," Janet explained.
"Well, I don't think that was very nice to you, Sally dear," Miss Carter protested. "Do hurry and eat your luncheon. I told Annie to keep it hot for you, and, oh, by the way, there are some letters for you on the hall table." She returned to the drawing-room where she was listening to the head of a new charity who was trying to secure her promise of support.
Janet dashed to the table and came back with the letters.
"Both alike and they're from town," she said as she opened hers.
"Muriel's invitations!" Phyllis exclaimed. "And, oh, Sally, do listen—it's to be a masquerade."
"What luck, oh, oh, why haven't I got a twin!" Sally wailed.
The discussion of costumes occupied the rest of the afternoon, and they must have reached a happy conclusion for Sally went home singing, and every time Phyllis and Janet looked at each other that evening they burst out laughing.
The telephone rang insistently, and Phyllis, stretched at ease on the sofa in the snuggery, looked appealingly at Janet.
"Darling twin of my heart, if you love me go and answer that. I'm so comfy," she pleaded.
Janet got up slowly from her big chair and looked reproachfully at her sister.
"Lazy, you're not a bit more comfy than I am, but I will go just to prove that I have the sweeter disposition."
"Bless you, I never doubted it," Phyllis called after her as she ran down the steps. Then she snuggled deeper into the cushions that were piled high about her, selected a large chocolate from the box beside her and closed her eyes.
It was the day before Muriel's party, and it was snowing hard. The girls had returned wet and cold from school and decided upon spending the rest of the day indoors. Janet, as usual, had found a book to read, but Phyllis, after playing with Galahad and Boru, had insisted upon interrupting, until in sheer desperation she had given it up and they had discussed the coming masquerade.
"It was Sally," Janet announced, returning from the 'phone.
"And what did she want?" Phyllis inquired. "You know, Jan, we were awfully silly not to bring Sally home with us."
"I won't tell you what she said unless you get up and hand me those chocolates," Janet replied as she settled herself once more in the big tufted chair.
Phyllis looked at the box of candy and then at the distance between it and Janet. It was too far to reach.
"Oh, Jan, I'm so tired," she protested.
"All right." Janet opened her book and began to read.
"Was it anything important?" Phyllis inquired, with pretended indifference.
"Fearfully,"—Janet did not look up from her book as she replied.
Phyllis appeared to consider the matter.
"Tell me what kind you want and I'll throw it to you," she offered by way of compromise.
Janet only went on reading.
"Oh, well, if I must, I must!" Curiosity won, and Phyllis got up slowly, the candy box in her hand. "Only never again allude to dispositions," she finished as she gave it to Janet.
"Thank you, dear," Janet said sweetly as she rooted in the bottom of the box for a nut.
"Well?" Phyllis demanded, "what did Sally want?"
Janet finished her candy and selected another before she answered.
"Sally called up to tell me that our costumes would be ready to try on at four o'clock to-day and that she would call for us in Daphne's car."
"Oh, how nice Taffy can be when she wants to." Phyllis was now wide awake. "Did Sally say when the not-to-be-hurried Miss Pringle intended to finish our things?"
"To-morrow, not later than twelve o'clock."
"Do you think she really will have them done then?"
"I should hope so; she's had them for ages," Janet replied. "Now, Phil, do keep still and let me read in peace until the girls come, I have a corking story and I'm just in the middle of the most thrilling part."
"What is it?" Phyllis inquired.
"'The White Company,' by Conan Doyle," Janet replied.
"Oh, I've read that and it is a thriller. I won't bother you any more." She turned her attentions to the candy box, and then because she was now too wide awake to dream lazily on the lounge again she went over to the window and looked out.
The snow had stopped and a cold sun was struggling through a mass of heavy clouds. She gazed below her idly. A man was on the roof of the house across the yard. The roof covered an extension that was only one story high but ran out from the house almost to the end of the yard, and brought it quite near to the roof of the kitchen of Miss Carter's house.
Phyllis watched the man with lazy interest. He was the caretaker, she knew, for the family was down South. He seemed to be fitting a heavy wire screen into one of the smaller windows immediately above the extension.
"Now, I wonder what he's doing that for?" she said aloud to herself. "Looks as though they were fixing that room for a baby."
Miss Carter came in at this minute and put an end to her curiosity.
"Oh, Auntie Mogs, Sally just called up to say that she and Daphne would come by for us in Daphne's car, and we could all go to Miss Pringle's and try on our costumes!" she exclaimed.
"Why, how very nice of Daphne,"—Miss Carter smiled. "I was worrying about your having to go out on this miserable day."
Phyllis laughed and put her arm around her aunt.
"You see there are no two ways about it!" she cried. "We should have a car of our own and then you would never have to worry about our feet."
"Oh, Phyllis, you're a great one,"—her aunt laughed. "Well, I'm afraid I must keep on worrying for we certainly can't have a car."
"Glad of it." Janet, for all her apparent interest for her book, had been listening with one ear to the conversation.
"Why, Jan,"—Phyllis looked at her in amazement—"wouldn't you like a car?"
"No, I hate them; silly smelly things—give me a horse every time."
"Old fashioned," scoffed Phyllis. "I'll take a high-powered racer every time."
Miss Carter listened and smiled her amusement.
"And you will both have to take a street car,"—she laughed. "Poor abused children! Hurry along with you, and get ready or you will keep Daphne waiting."
"There they are now!" Phyllis exclaimed, as the front door bell pealed merrily. "That's Sally's ring; I know it."
Janet threw down her book, and they went to their rooms in search of hats.
A few minutes later they were all in the comfortable limousine, speeding along uptown.
"It was awfully nice of you to stop for us, Taffy," Phyllis said as soon as the greetings were over. "This is certainly a whole lot better than walking."
"Yes, isn't it!" Daphne agreed. "I was tickled when mother said I could have it. It isn't often that I can, you know."
Sally had been looking out of the window, and suddenly she leaned forward and knocked on the glass and waved.
"Look!" she exclaimed. "There's little Donald; isn't he the cutest youngster?"
Phyllis waved too, then she looked puzzled.
"Funny," she said under her breath.
"What is?" Janet demanded.
"Oh, nothing."
Daphne looked back at Donald through the window above her head.
"Isn't that Donald Keith?" she asked, and Phyllis nodded.
"It is Donald Francis MacFarlan Keith,"—she laughed, "or so he told me with much pardonable pride. He was most sympathetic when I had to confess to only two names."
"His father's a friend of my uncle's," Daphne explained. "It's little Don's cousin, Chuck Vincent, that Muriel walks home with every day. I've played tennis with him, and he's really rather fun for a boy," she drawled.
"For a boy?" laughed Janet. "I think boys are a whole lot more fun than girls."
"I don't," Daphne replied airily. "I think they are all very stuck up. Chuck is; you'll see that to-morrow night."
"Wonder if Miss Pringle will really have our things ready for us," Sally said. "She is always so uncertain. If she doesn't, I think I will die of disappointment."
"You tell her she has to, Daphne," Janet suggested. "You can always put on such airs, and they never fail to impress."
"Do my best." Daphne accepted Janet's compliment calmly; she knew it was true. Her drawl did seem to impress people, though she could never imagine why.
The car stopped before a dilapidated, brownstone house, and the girls got out and hurried up the worn steps. Miss Pringle herself let them in. She was a tall, angular woman, with wisps of untidy hair blowing about her face, and a mouth out of which she could always produce a pin at a moment's notice.
"Oh, young ladies," she said distractedly. "Why have you come?"
"We want to try on our dominoes," Sally said, rather taken aback.
"Dominoes? Oh, yes, yes, to be sure. Step this way."
She led them into a large room, filled with the smell of the kerosene stove and strewn with patterns and pieces of silks. It was a cluttered-up place.
"Here they are!" Phyllis exclaimed, going over to the table and picking up a dress. "Aren't they ducks?"
"Don't touch, please," Miss Pringle said nervously; "they're only pinned."
She picked up one of the costumes and beckoned to Sally.
"This is yours, Miss Ladd. Slip it over your head."
The others crowded around and admired.
"Oh, Sally, it's a love!" Phyllis enthused.
Miss Pringle shook her head and sighed.
"I can't understand why you are having them all alike," she complained. "Now, if you had only consulted me I could have designed such a pretty one for each of you; but, no, you must have your own way."
"But we want them alike for a special reason," Sally explained. "It's to be a regular masquerade, you know, and we thought that four costumes just alike would confuse people,"—she stopped, discouraged by the lack of Miss Pringle's attention.
The costume was a domino made of strips of colored silks with a big hood lined with pale yellow. Each stripe ended in a point, and a tiny bell hung from each one.
The girls tried them on, one at a time, and Miss Pringle pinned and basted and lengthened and shortened. She had made costumes all her life and no play at Miss Harding's seemed complete until she had been consulted.
"What are the other girls going to wear?" Daphne asked indifferently.
"Miss Grey will have a dear little shepherdess dress, and those two that are always together, I've mislaid their names in my mind—"
Sally laughed and Phyllis said quickly,
"Rosamond Dodd and Eleanor Schuyler."
"Yes, those are the ones. Well, they are going as Jack and Jill, and, oh, dearie me, I forgot. I know I've done my best for them all, and I must say they had more faith in my judgment than you young ladies had." An audible sniff ended the sentence.
"Oh, now, Miss Pringle," Sally protested, "we have unlimited faith in you. Didn't I prove it last year by letting you make a fairy out of me when I wanted to be a witch? This is a special joke we are having, that's why we want to be all alike."
"A very poor one, if you ask me,"—another sniff. "I can understand the Miss Pages, being as how they are twins, but—"
The girls were ready to leave, and Daphne interrupted her politely, but in her most approved drawl:
"We must all have our dominoes before noon, you know," she said. "As we are all going to dress at one house and go together, please be sure they are delivered on time."
"Certainly, Miss Hillis. I think I can be depended upon to keep my promises." Miss Pringle spoke huffily, but Daphne only smiled her slowest smile and nodded graciously as they went down the steps.
Phyllis hesitated before she entered the waiting car. A man whom she recognized as the caretaker of the house just back of theirs ran up the steps and disappeared in the wake of Miss Pringle's trailing wrapper.
"Wonder how he got here so quickly," Phyllis said to herself, and then dismissed the subject, at an impatient "hurry up" from Sally.
"Aunt Jane's poll parrot, what a mob!"
The four girls, each in a domino exactly like the others, stood at the door of the Greys' immense drawing-room and surveyed the scene before them. It was, of course, Sally who spoke.
Phyllis laughed softly. "If you go about saying that, Sally, it won't be hard to know who you are," she warned.
"You'll have to forget Aunt Jane and her poll parrot for to-night," a voice soft and tinkling drawled.
This time Janet laughed. "How about your drawl, Taffy?" she inquired.
"Oh, dear, this will never do," Phyllis protested. "We will all have to keep as quiet as possible and only answer 'yes' and 'no.'"
Sally's blue eyes opened wide behind her mask of black satin.
"Oh, but that won't be any fun at all!" she cried.
"We might mumble everything we want to say," suggested Janet; "and if we all do it, it will be more confusing than ever."
"Good idea, 'How do you do this evening; isn't the room beautiful?'" Daphne mumbled in a monotone.
"Oh, Taffy," Janet laughed, "even your very best friend wouldn't know you."
"Well, then let's go in and pay our respects to Muriel; she and her mother are over there by the other door," Sally suggested, and led the way.
The room through which they walked was indeed beautiful. Ivory white woodwork made a fitting frame for the pale gold brocade that hung on the walls. Ferns and great bowls of roses filled every corner, and the perfume of the flowers scented the warm air of the room. Two crystal chandeliers blazed in all the glory of their rainbow colors and reflected their brilliance in the polished floor.
Groups of girls and boys chattered and laughed and tried to guess the identity of each other. Every hero and heroine in history was represented, and they nodded and bowed to dainty Mother Goose folk.
The simplicity of the four dominoes made a strange spot of color as they walked together towards their hostesses. They were all about the same height and build, they marched in step, and their bells jingled in unison.
"How do you do," they mumbled as they shook hands.
Muriel Grey, dressed, as Miss Pringle had suggested, in the dainty pinks and blues of a Dresden shepherdess, stood beside her mother. She was not masked as her guests were, and her puzzled surprise was plain to be seen.
"Why, who can you be?" she exclaimed. "I have guessed every girl and boy so far, but I haven't the slightest idea who you are. Please say something," she begged.
"You look very pretty to-night."
"What a lot of people there are."
"We are all so glad to be here."
"Think hard and you will surely guess."
All four answers were mumbled at once and poor Muriel was more confused than ever.
"I think your costumes are delightful and it is great fun to have four unknown guests," Mrs. Grey said. "I shall be watching you all anxiously when the gong rings to unmask. Don't run away like Cinderella when you hear it, will you?" she added, smiling.
"No, indeed," a mumble assured her. "We will all come and say 'how do you do' to you then in our own voices."
Another group, this time of boys, came up, and the four hurried away.
It was not long before the guests had all assembled and the music began.
"Let's go over there and watch," Phyllis suggested, pointing to a bench under a palm in the corner. "Then we can see whom we know."
"There's John Steers, dressed as a donkey,"—Sally pointed to a tall, ungainly boy, who presented a droll aspect as he leaned up against the wall beside the musicians' platform. His thin body accentuated by the large donkey's head gave him a top-heavy expression, and the forefeet that covered his long arms hung dejectedly at his sides.
"He doesn't look as though he were having a very good time," Janet laughed. "Why doesn't he go and talk to some one?"
"Not John; he perfectly hates and despises parties, but his mother makes him go to them, and he always stands over by the musicians and mopes just as he is doing now," Phyllis explained.
"There are Eleanor and Rosamond over there talking to the two boys in armor,"—Daphne pointed.
"Of course, I'd have known them even if old Pringle had not told us their costumes,"—Sally chuckled. "Oh, do look at that boy dressed as Robin Hood; he is bow legged,"—she went off into convulsions of laughter, and as the others looked at the very fat and uncomfortable lad across the room they joined her. They had hardly time to compose their features before three boys came up to them and bowed.
One, the tallest of the lot, wore a monk's garb of rough brown and the big hood completely covered his head; his face was hidden by a ghostly white mask. The one next to him was dressed exactly like the Mother Goose pictures of Little Jack Horner and he carried a paper pie under one arm. The last of the trio was the most amusing; his face was blacked and a wig of kinky black hair stood out in dozens of tiny braids, each tied with a different colored string. He wore a red and white calico dress that was just short enough to show his big, clumsy boots. He made a very deep bow before Sally and said in a high shrill voice.
"May I have this dance, please, ma'am?"
"With pleasure,"—Sally for a wonder did not forget to mumble. She did not have the slightest idea who her partner was, but then that is the fun of a masquerade.
"And will you dance with me?" the monk asked in a very solemn tone, bowing to Janet.
Janet got up and then sat down again very suddenly; there was an awkward pause, and then she managed to say:
"But I don't know how to dance." Gone was the mumble, gone was every thought except the misery of the minute.
But the monk, instead of being disappointed, gave a mighty sigh of relief.
"Thank goodness for that," he said heartily. "I hate to dance, myself, so let's go and see if we can't find some lemonade. This hood is so hot I need something to cool me off."
Janet did not wait to be coaxed. She took the arm he offered her, and they soon disappeared into the crowd.
Little Jack Horner shifted from one foot to the other in his embarrassment at finding himself between two girls. At last he said,
"I want to dance with one of you but blest if I can tell which, you are as alike as two peas. I wish you would stop that mumbling and let me hear your voices. I bet I know you both."
Phyllis and Daphne looked at each other and laughed. Jack Horner had forgotten, in his eagerness to find out who they were, to disguise his own voice, and they both recognized him.
"No, Jerry Dodd, we won't stop mumbling; you'll just have to choose as best you can," Daphne said.
Jerry looked at her curiously; there was something familiar in that tinkly laugh.
"Then I'll choose you," he said promptly. "You know me, so I must know you, and before we have danced half way round the room I bet I can tell you your name."
"Bet you can't," Daphne teased as she got up.
Phyllis watched them whirl away and smiled to herself. Daphne was a beautiful dancer, and if Jerry had even a grain of sense he would recognize her light step, for he had danced with her many times at dancing school. She watched them circle the room once and waited for them to pass her again. As they neared her she expected to hear Daphne's familiar drawl, but instead she heard Jerry's pleading voice say,
"Ah, go on, give a fellow a chance."
The rest of the sentence was lost for a voice close beside her asked,
"Did you find the lemonade?"
She turned quickly to see a knight in shining armor. A golden wig fell to his shoulders, and a blazing cross covered the front of his tunic. He wore a small black mask that did not hide his smiling mouth. He carried a great sword with both hands.
"No, Sir Galahad, I didn't," Phyllis answered.
"Where's your monk, Friar Tuck; I thought he was with you?" Sir Galahad inquired.
"Did you?" Phyllis asked sweetly. She was not mumbling, but her voice was not at all natural and she had no fear of the knight's recognizing her for she felt quite sure she did not know him.
"But I don't understand. When I last saw you, Howard was going to take you into the library and teach you to dance and John was going with you." Sir Galahad was perplexed.
"Yet here I am." Phyllis was hugely enjoying herself. There was no doubt that he took her for Janet, and she delighted in teasing him.
"Do you mean to tell me that they went off and left you?" Two dark eyebrows that contrasted oddly with the golden wig came together in a frown just above the black mask.
"Perhaps,"—Phyllis threw a note of sorrow into her voice, and her eyes looked up into his without a hint of laughter.
"I never heard of such a thing," he said angrily, and something in the way he said it brought back a sudden memory to Phyllis and made her eyes dance. She lowered them quickly, for it was just possible that Don's cousin might prove as clever as Don.
The knight sat down beside her on the bench and rested his sword beside him.
"What's your name?" he asked presently.
"You'd never believe it if I told you," Phyllis replied.
"Well, tell me anyhow."
"I am Queen Mab,"—Phyllis dropped her voice to a whisper—"but I am masquerading as Pierrette, so you mustn't tell anybody."
"Don't be silly," was the knight's ungallant reply. "I mean, who are you really?"
"See, I told you you wouldn't believe,"—Phyllis shrugged her shoulders daintily. "I dare say you don't believe in fairies nor brownies either," she ventured, watching him out of the corner of her eye.
The words should have given the knight the hint he wanted, but he was too cross to understand it just then.
"Oh, very well," he said huffily, "if you won't tell me, you won't; but don't expect me to tell you my name either."
"I don't have to," Phyllis laughed gayly. "I know; it's Chuck."
"Well I'll be darned,"—Sir Galahad stared at her in amazement. "Then I know you?"
"I didn't say so," Phyllis teased.
He got up and stood facing her, his arms folded.
"Come and get some lemonade," he commanded. "I am going to find out who you are, never you fear, but I am going to do it in my own way."
They walked to the little alcove where a maid in cap and apron was busily serving the punch. Chuck kept his eyes fastened on his companion as if he were determined to penetrate her mask and the saucy hood that jingled as they walked. He did not look up until they were at the table and when he did it was to find the monk and the donkey with—he blinked, not his partner, for she was beside him, but surely her double.
Janet and Phyllis looked at each other and smiled. Janet's companions were as astonished as Chuck. They looked at first one and then the other of the girls, and then Howard whistled.
"Golly," he exclaimed. It was not a word that fitted his costume but it exactly suited his confused frame of mind.
"I am seeing double or else I'm going crazy and I don't like the feeling," he protested. "Somebody pinch me."
Both John and Chuck took him at his word and complied heartily with his request. The result was a loud but quickly suppressed "ouch" and a backward lunge that almost upset the table with its precious burden of lemonade.
Chuck took Phyllis by the arm and almost shook her.
"Then you weren't you; I mean her," he said none too clearly, "but you let me think you were."
"You mean I let you think I was I. Well, I couldn't very well help it." Phyllis's tone was apologetic, but her eyes danced.
Chuck looked appealingly at Janet.
"You know what I mean," he said.
"Of course, it's perfectly plain," Janet replied consolingly. "You thought she was me while all the time she was she and me was me,"—the hodge-podge of pronouns and their ungrammatical use was too much for poor Chuck. He buried his head in his hands, the picture of despair.
Phyllis took the opportunity of exchanging a nod and a sly wink with Janet that she apparently understood, for without a second's hesitation she slipped out of her place and Phyllis took it.
"Well, anyhow you can dance,"—Chuck lifted his head and looked at Janet. Howard and John promptly doubled over in a fit of laughter.
"Oh, but I'm so sorry I can't," Janet said demurely.
Chuck looked at Phyllis. "Then neither of you dance, I see," he said slowly.
"Why, I never said I couldn't," Phyllis protested, and Howard, who was trying to recover his first fit of laughter by drinking a cup of punch, choked and had to be severely thumped on the back by John.
Chuck looked angry and puzzled for a minute and then he acknowledged his defeat and laughed good naturedly.
"One of you dances," he said with conviction. "Will she please do me the honor of dancing this one step with me?" He looked at them both, not at all sure which one would reply.
"I'd love to," Phyllis said, laughing.
He took her in his arms and away they whirled. Chuck, unlike most boys of his age, liked to dance, and Phyllis was as light as the fairy she claimed to be, so for a few minutes they did not speak, for they were contented to glide over the waxed floor to the inspiring music.
"I should say you could dance," Chuck said at last. "If your voice was not entirely different I would say that you were Daphne Hillis."
"Would you?"—Phyllis did her best to imitate Daphne's drawl, and she succeeded so well that Chuck came to a full stop in the very middle of the floor and stared at her.
"Are you Daphne?" he demanded.
Phyllis gave a little laugh and lowered her eyes, but she neither admitted nor denied.
Chuck started to dance again without saying another word, and presently Phyllis stole a quick glance up at him. She found him staring at her with a new look in his eyes.
"You are not Daphne," he said with relief. "Taffy has green eyes and yours are brown, red brown like autumn leaves." Phyllis gave a little start, for the words were so like little Don's.
"I'm glad you are not Taffy," Chuck went on. "I might have known you weren't."
"Why?" Phyllis could not help asking.
"Oh, because Taffy and I are on the outs, and she wouldn't dance with me for anything," he replied indifferently.
"She might," was all Phyllis would say, her brain already busy with a plan.
"Too bad your twin doesn't dance," was Chuck's next remark, and for a minute Phyllis lost step and almost stumbled. He had used the word without thinking, never realizing how near the truth he was.
"But do look," he exclaimed a second later, "she does; there she goes with Jerry Dodd, and she dances beautifully too. Whatever made her say she couldn't?"
Phyllis was speechless with mirth, but she managed to nod to Daphne as she sailed by, still with Jerry.
The dance ended, it was the fifth of the evening, and the four girls had all promised to leave their partners and return to the dressing-room to compare notes when it was over.
Phyllis found the others all there waiting for her, for it had been difficult to find an excuse to satisfy Chuck. He made her promise to meet him at the bench for the seventh dance before he would leave her to keep his next dance with Muriel.
"Oh, oh, oh, was there ever such a lark!" Sally exclaimed. "I have danced with five different boys and not one of them guessed who I was, and yet I know them all and have danced with them scores of times."
"Have you been dancing with Jerry all evening?" Phyllis asked Daphne, as Janet regaled Sally with a description of the scene by the punch bowl.
"What else can I do?" Daphne groaned. "He says he won't let me go until he finds out who I am, and I simply won't tell him. I saw you dancing with Chuck. How do you like him?"
"Oh, ever so much," Phyllis replied, and then she laughed harder than ever.
Daphne demanded an explanation, and when Phyllis gave it, together with her plan, she heartily agreed.
"Then it's settled that we all meet at the bench just as the lights go out before the gong rings to unmask," Sally said, as they started back downstairs. The rest nodded, and at the door of the ballroom they separated, each to her waiting partner, rather to a waiting partner.
Sally joined Howard and John in the library, to continue Janet's dancing lessons, and Janet hurried to the punch bowl to find a jolly King Cole who had Sally's promise to sit out the dance with him and let him guess who she was.
Chuck, after leaving Muriel rather unceremoniously, rushed to the bench beneath the palms, and Daphne greeted him with a smile of welcome. Phyllis was claimed at once on her appearance by the persistent Jerry, and they danced off, as Jerry firmly believed, taking up the threads of their conversation exactly where he and Daphne had left off.
The room was so large that it was surprisingly easy to keep out of one another's way, and not one of the four boys realized that there were more than two girls wearing the same kind of costume.
The dance ended, and the girls lost themselves in the crowd, to appear in person for their next dance, the boys none the wiser. Only John, with his donkey's head very much awry, noticed a change as he watched Howard Garth painstakingly teaching Sally the rest of the steps to the fox trot. Janet had not thought of telling Sally that she was being very nice to John; she hardly realized it herself; so Sally ignored him as girls always ignored John, and he noticed it. It took Janet several minutes to make him forget his grievance when she came back at the ninth dance to have one more lesson.
The tenth dance had hardly begun before the music slowed noticeably, and the lights gradually grew dim, the room blurred, and the couples came to a standstill as darkness descended over them. Four figures hurried their protesting partners towards the bench under the palm. They were all there by the time the gong sounded.
Suddenly the lights blazed on again, and four very surprised boys stared in bewilderment at the four girls before them.
"Oh, now I know I'm crazy!" Howard exclaimed. "So don't bother to pinch me," he added, as Chuck and John lifted their arms.
Jerry Dodd looked reproachfully at Daphne and wagged his head.
"It was you all the time," he said, "but how could a feller be expected to know when you talked the fool way you did."
"But, Jerry, are you sure you were dancing all the time with me?" Daphne's drawl sounded pleasantly on all ears.
"That I am," Jerry replied, with so much certainty that Phyllis and Daphne shrieked with laughter.
Grant Weeks, in spite of the dignity that his King Cole suit gave him, looked very limp as he sat down on the bench. All he seemed to be able to say was,
"Sally Ladd—you—you—" The rest was lost in groans.
Up until now Chuck had not spoken. He had stood looking at all the girls in turn, and particularly at Phyllis and Janet.
"What I want to know is, when did I dance with which?" he demanded so seriously that the rest laughed with delight.
"And who takes who to supper?" inquired Grant. "Sally, I may not have danced with you, nor sat out in the conservatory and argued with you, but I am going to take you in to supper, so come along."
"I don't know whether I ought to go with a boy that doesn't know whether he knows me or not," Sally laughed, "but I will just this once."
Howard turned to Janet.
"Did I or didn't I teach you to dance?" he demanded.
"You did,"—Janet laughed. "That is, part of the time. Come on, John, we'll all go down together. I'm awfully hungry."
"I knew it," John said to himself, and he smiled even through his donkey's mask.
Phyllis and Daphne were left, and Chuck and Jerry looked at them uneasily.
"What are we going to do about it?" Jerry demanded.
"Suit yourself,"—Chuck laughed. "I am going to take—" and here he paused, for he suddenly remembered that he had never been introduced to Phyllis and did not even know her name.
"Daphne, introduce us," he begged.
"But we've met already," Phyllis protested. "Have you forgotten?"
"Oh, I don't mean that silly Queen Mab introduction," Chuck said.
"Neither do I," Phyllis confused him still further by replying.
Jerry took Daphne's arm and hurried her off.
"Let's let them settle it themselves," he said over his shoulder.
Chuck looked at Phyllis and smiled.
"Please," he said coaxingly. But Phyllis shook her head.
"Not unless you promise to believe in Don's brownies," she answered, and as she spoke she pulled off her hood.
Chuck looked at her and gasped.
"Of course," he exclaimed, "you're the girl that brought Don home, and I saw you one day when I was with Muriel and she told me you were one of the Page twins and—" he stopped, and Phyllis guessed that the rest of Muriel's remarks had not been any too sweet.
"Well, take a good look at me," she teased, "for once I leave you, you will never be able to tell me from Janet."
"Oh, won't I?" Chuck replied. "I bet I will, and I'll prove it after supper."
His chance came a little later. Both girls stood before him, their hoods thrown back and their eyes laughing up at him.
"It's easy," Chuck laughed, holding out his hand to Phyllis, "you are Don's girl," he said.
"Oh, Don told you the secret," Sally protested.
"He did not," Chuck denied.
"Close your eyes then and turn around," Janet directed. She and Phyllis changed places, and when Sally called "ready," Chuck turned to find them still before him but with their eyes tight shut.
"Easy again," he said, and took Phyllis by the hand.
The little group looked at each other in astonishment, for they had all been baffled, and Daphne said,
"Tell us how you did it?"
"No, that's my secret," Chuck replied firmly; "mine and Don's, and I'll never tell."
And he kept his word, for not until many years later did the Page twins learn the difference that he saw between them every time he looked at them.