"No." Betty's puzzlement was plainly written on her face.
"When we crossed the bridge, we left the District of Columbia," explained Bobby. "Of course we're very close to the line, but still we are not in Washington."
"There's the house!" exclaimed Louise. "I wonder if mother got back from shopping. I don't see her on the porch."
Betty saw a beautiful white house, dazzlingly white against a background of dark trees, with a broad lawn in front circled by a wide white driveway. A terraced garden at the side with a red brick walk was arranged with wicker chairs and tables and a couple of swings protected with gay striped awnings. It was a typical Southern mansion in perfect order, and Betty reveled in its architectural perfections even while she told herself that it did not look in the slightest like a hotel. What was it Bobby had called her home? "Fairfields"—that was it; and she, Betty, wanted to go to the Willard. Had they made a mistake and brought her to the wrong place?
There was no time to ask for explanations, however. The girls swept her out of the car and up the low steps through the beautiful doorway. A well-trained man servant closed the door noiselessly, and the three bore Betty across the wide hall into a room lined with books and boasting
