Eugenia’s three weeks were nearly gone too, and the lost theme had not come to light. Betty had questioned every one who could possibly have seen it or taken it from her desk, and she had hunted through the tea-shop from the remotest corner of the loft to the shed where the kerosene can was kept. Poor Eugenia had turned her room topsyturvy on three separate occasions, on the principle of “three times and out,” and she had begged all her friends to do likewise with theirs, if they loved her one little bit. She had passed her midyears, and was doing her best with all her courses, though she sadly declared it was no use at all, since Miss Raymond had never believed she wrote her theme and would certainly not give her another chance.
“I don’t know that I blame her,” sighed Eugenia, “only I think she might know that if I was going to make up a lie I’d have made up a better one than that. If I have to take that course over in the ‘flunked-out’ class that she’s organizing to begin next week, I shall d-die. Just think of writing a lot of extra themes on top of everything else—in spring term too, that you all say is so lovely, when nobody expects so terribly much of you. She’ll expect more of you, Miss Wales!” ended Eugenia vindictively.
Betty did not dare to hold out any encouragement, but she secretly suspected that Miss Raymond was keeping Eugenia on tenterhooks, as good discipline, until the last minute, and then meant to let her off easily. Betty couldn’t bear to consider the other alternative; she should always have to feel partly responsible for Eugenia’s misery. The fact that Eugenia assured her sweetly that she wasn’t at all responsible and kept on doing nice things for Dorothy only made it all the harder.
And then came Emily Davis, a little pale and worn with work done under difficulties and with worry over the future, but as gay as ever at heart. She slipped in upon Betty unannounced one snowy afternoon.
“Indade an’ you’re a sight for sore eyes,” she cried, rushing at her with a kiss and a hug. “And it’s destroyed I am for a talk wid ye an’ a sup o’ your lovely tay.”
Emily’s Irish had been a prime favorite with 19—, and Betty laughed with delight at hearing it again. “Poor lady, did you have a horrid trip up?” she asked, as she rang her little bell for Nora.
“Distressin’, me darlint, distressin’,” Emily went on solemnly. “What wid cryin’ childern an’ worritin’ wimin, wakin’ the place wid their noise, I could nayther——”
“Sh!” warned Betty. “Here comes Nora.”
But she was just too late. Nora had overheard the mimicry of her race’s speech. Her Irish feelings were hurt, and her Irish temper kindled. When Betty introduced Emily and explained that she had come to share the responsibilities of the tea-room, Nora tossed her head and said, “Yes’m, and is that all you wanted?” with an air of an offended duchess.
She served the tea with great care, but in a haughty silence that worried Betty and amused Emily.