Not feeling at all that she was breaking her promise, she subscribed to The Capital City Press and to the college newspaper, avidly searching them for any news of David and jealously hoarding the clippings with which her diligence was rewarded.
In this way she learned that he was elected president of the junior class; that he “made” the football eleven as halfback; that—and she almost fainted with terror—that he was slightly injured during the Thanksgiving game, when A. & M. beat the State University team in a bitterly fought contest.
By that time she was in the finishing school which Courtney Barr had chosen for her, and was herself becoming prominent in school activities through her talent for dramatics. When David’s college paper printed a two-column picture of her sweetheart she cut it out and framed it. The greatest joy she had that first year of her new life was to hear the other girls rave about his good looks and his athletic record, of which she bragged swaggeringly.
During the spring term she was chosen by the dramatic director to take the lead in the school’s last play of the year, “The Clinging Vine.” Sally Ford, or Sally Barr, as she was known at the school, was again happy “play-acting.” Enid and Courtney Barr came down from New York for the play and for commencement exercises, though Sally would not graduate for another year. It was the first time she had seen her mother since they had parted in the little mid-western town where Enid had found Sally being married to David Nash.
“But how adorably pretty you are!” Enid exclaimed wonderingly, when she had the girl safe in the privacy of her own suite in a nearby hotel. “I wanted to nudge every fond mama sitting near me and exult, ‘That’s my daughter! Isn’t she beautiful? Isn’t she a wonderful little actress?’ Are you happy, darling?”
Sally, her cheeks poppy-red with excitement and pleasure in her success in the school play, twirled lightly on the toe of her silver slipper, so that her pink chiffon skirt belled out like a ballet dancer’s.
“Happy? I’m thrilled and excited right now, and happy that you’re here, but sometimes I’m lonely, in spite of my new friends—Oh, Mother,” she cried, catching Enid’s hands impulsively, “won’t you let me go back with you and Mr. Barr now? I want to be with someone I belong to! I don’t fit in here, really. I—I guess I’m still Orphan Sally Ford inside. I’m always expecting them to snub me, or to taunt me.”
Enid’s eyes filmed over with tears, but she shook her head. “We must try to be patient, darling. I want you to be at home with girls like these—girls who have always had money and social position and—and culture. It’s a loathsome word, but I don’t know any better one for what I mean. Don’t you see, sweetheart? Mother wants you to be ready for New York when you come, so that you will be happy, but not timid and ill-at-ease. Court was really very wise. I’ve come to see that now. Please try to be patient, darling.”
“And this summer?” Sally quivered. “He said I could be with you at your Long Island home—”
But Enid was shaking her head again, her eyes infinitely fond and pitying. “I’m going abroad, dear. I haven’t been very well this winter—just tired from too much gayety, I think. The doctors advise a rest cure in southern France. I want you to go to a girls’ camp in New Hampshire. It’s really a part of your education, social and physical. I want you to ride and swim and hike all summer, with the sort of girls whom you’ll be meeting when you do join us in New York.