"The dinner bell will ring in a few moments," Helen declared presently, "and we must both make ourselves fit to be seen, not of men, but between thirty and forty feminines. I wish your gowns were not quite so grave, but spring is on the way and we will take to light raiment and look like a flock of birds. Good-by for five minutes," and she flashed away.
Daisy had a blue ribbon tied in her hair and a pretty chiffon neckgear, and was really an attractive girl.
"Why didn't you stay all night with that woman of grays and browns and general dismalness, and lose your dinner! There, you have almost. If she had any beauty or charm about her I should be jealous, for you belong to me, you know."
Helen slipped into a light shirtwaist and was ready in a trice. Miss Craven did not come down. When the maid went to inquire, she said she had a headache, and wanted only a cup of tea.
There was the bit of social life, the study period, and Helen seemed so discomposed that she used up every moment of it until they were dismissed. Daisy put her arm about Helen, another girl took the other side, and three or four of them came into the room.
How they stayed! Helen summoned courage presently.
"Excuse me a moment," and she flashed out of the room, tapping at Miss Craven's door.
It was open just an inch or two.
"I came to ask about your headache and say good-night," in a low tone.
"Oh, you dear, sweet friend! It did ache, but I think it was a kind of joy throbbing. I didn't want any dinner though. I just laid here and thought—happy thoughts."