“Save some for me,” mocked Peggy, when she overtook them.
“Nice Mr. Huntington,” said Gertie amiably, “nice, poor cheated Peggy. Her shall have one—just one, mamma said,—slap your wrists———”
“Gertie, I’m going to put you up on the hill one of these days,” laughed Peggy. On the hill was a certain state institution which visitors to the town were always annoyingly mistaking for the college.
“But then, visitors are always funny,” as Gloria had once explained. “One of them asked me where I came from and I said Iowa. She looked at me a minute and then said, ‘Will you please say that again?’ Obligingly I repeated ‘Iowa.’ ‘Isn’t that odd?’ she said then. ‘How strangely you do pronounce it. Now I’ve always heard it called Ohio.’”
At the thought of Gloria, the salted almonds became bitter in Peggy’s mouth, and she made a little face of distress.
“Kaddie, do you think Gloria isn’t as happy as she might be?” she inquired of her room-mate.
With the quick facility of college girls for jumping from the most inane and frivolous pleasantries to the most serious attitude of mind, Katherine answered thoughtfully.
“Peggy, how could she help being happy?”
This question certainly appeared a staggerer on the face of things.
“Happy?” trilled Doris Winterbean, “Why, I saw her yesterday going to vespers in the loveliest Belgian blue velvet suit mine eyes have ever beheld. Happy! My dear! I’m free to say that if my own friend Self had been clad in such Consider-the-Lilies raiment, I’d have gone to vespers dancing!”