THE COLLEGE BEAUTY
IT was a sort of farewell party, and the young woman who was going away and who was the object of so much solicitude and tender concern was sitting, enshrined as it were, on a divan covered with a Navahoe Indian blanket and surrounded by innumerable cushions, while the rest hung about her or took up precarious attitudes on the table in dangerous proximity to the student lamps, or settled themselves in steamer-chairs, or sat upon the tiger-skin on the floor. That is, the American girls did; Kan Ato, the pretty Japanese who had come arrayed in a gorgeous new kimono—dull blue embroidered splendidly in silver—sat upright and very stiffly in the window-seat with the dark red of the curtains showing off her jet black hair and her gown wonderfully well; while the tall Scotch girl, a cousin of the guest of honor, had trusted her generous proportions to the only large, comfortable American chair in the room.
There was a great deal of noise and confusion and questioning, and Miss Lavington, as she leaned back against her cushions, half wished that after all the doctor had not let her come. She had been very ill—a short, sharp attack of typhoid—and although she had enjoyed tremendously the wine jelly, and the violets, and the hushed, anxious tones of her friends as they inquired after her at the infirmary, and the many remarks about her good qualities and how clever she was in Conic Sections—“just as if she were really dead,” as she said—still she felt rather too weak properly to appreciate her friends’ enthusiastic sympathy at such close range. And then the thought of going away—and so far away—had made her feel blue and dispirited.
She was a very pretty English girl, whose father—a colonel in an Indian regiment—had sent her to America in the care of a sister of his who had moved to “the States;” and so it had come about that, instead of being a Girton or Newnham girl, she had matriculated at this American college. And now her father had written decisively for her to come out and join him in India, and her college friendships and ties were all to be broken. He had been writing about it for some time, and her illness had finally precipitated the affair. She had only waited until she grew strong enough to start, and the following day had been decided upon. The long sea-voyage would be the very thing for her, the doctor had thought.
She was trying to explain to the interested young women just what route she would take, and was rapidly filling their souls with envy at the familiar mention of Brindisi and Cairo and Aden, when there was a knock and a quick opening of the door and a girl came into the room. She was a very beautiful young woman, and when she sat down on the divan beside Miss Lavington she seemed suddenly to absorb all the attention and interest, and to become in some magical way the guest of honor and centre of attraction. She met with a very enthusiastic reception, for she had that afternoon gained the tennis championship for her class—she was a senior—and had not yet changed her white flannel suit with scarlet sumach leaves worked on it, and as she dragged off her soft cap, one could see that her hair still lay in damp curls upon her forehead.
After she had entered the room one would have realized that they had really been waiting for her. Her mere presence seemed to make a difference. It was this magnetic quality which rendered her so irresistible and all adverse criticism of her so absurd. People might differ as to her beauty—there were some indeed, who said that she was too large, or that her eyes were not very expressive, or that her mouth was too small, but they all fell under her influence in some remarkable way, and were very much flattered when she asked them to drive with her, and never failed to point her out to their friends as “the College Beauty, you know;” and even those who honestly wondered how she ever got through her examinations were forced to admit that she had a great deal of natural talent, which she did not always care to exercise. She was a fine tennis player too, using either hand equally well, and when the Tennis Association got itself into debt and she saved the situation by beguiling, in some inexplicable way, the famous musical organization of a certain university into giving a concert for its benefit, her popularity reached its climax. To the less sought-after girls, her composure and ease of manner while surrounded by an admiring circle of college men was nothing short of marvellous, and the recklessly generous disposal which she made of these youths to her less attractive friends seemed to betoken a social prodigality little short of madness.
Miss Lavington looked at her imploringly.
“Make them keep quiet, won’t you?” she said. The Beauty looked around her—“Are you trying to make her ill again, so she can’t go?” she asked.
Her words had the desired effect, and the girl who had been twanging abstractedly at a banjeurine put it down.