“There’s only one thing I can think of to brighten things up,” wailed Doris Winterbean one day, “so that we’ll all carry away pleasant memories of the place for Christmas.”
“Well, what’s that?” asked Peggy, without interest, for each day of hers was as full of good times as it could be, and she thought she wouldn’t need pleasant things to remember over the holidays anyway, because she would be enjoying herself so much during them that it would crowd all thoughts of past and future, too, out of her head.
“A house dance,” said Doris thrillingly.
Peggy was all interest now.
“Would they—could we get one up before Christmas?” she asked. “But then,” the brightness faded from her eyes, “I have to lead half of the time and I’m not tall enough, so it really doesn’t matter as much to me as it might.”
“Oh, pshaw,” exclaimed Doris, “I didn’t mean that kind of a dance. Not just girls, you know.”
“No-o?” said Peggy cautiously.
“Of course not.”
“Well, whom then?”
“Oh, people from Amherst or Williams—or Dartmouth or wherever we can get them.”