"What a shame Nell's not here!" said Rose, breaking the eggs into the
chafing-dish. "Then we could have charades. She's simply great when she
gets started."
"Who is Nell?" asked Quin.
"Eleanor Bartlett, our cousin. She's like chicken and ice-cream--the rich
Bartletts have her on weekdays and we poor Martels get her only on
Sundays. Hasn't Cass ever told you about Nell?"
"Do you suppose I spend my time talking about my precious family?"
growled Cass.
"No, but Nell's different," said Rose; "she's a sort of Solomon's baby--I
mean the baby that Solomon had to decide about. Only in this case neither
old Madam Bartlett nor Papa Claude will give up their half; they'd see
her dead first."
"You did tell me about her," said Quin to Cass, "one night when we were
up in the Cantigny offensive. I remember the place exactly. Something
about an orphan, and a lawsuit, and a little girl that was going to be an
actress."
"That's the dope," said Cass. "Only she's not a kid any more. She grew up
while I was in France. She's a great girl, Nell is, when you get her away
from that Bartlett mess!"
"Does anybody know where Papa Claude is?" Rose demanded, dexterously
ladling out steaming Welsh rabbit on to slices of crisp brown toast.
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