And then a dismal quiet descended on the Tally-ho Tea-Shop. Madeline was up-stairs with a bevy of Cakes, who were rehearsing and working on their costumes. Betty refused to join them until she had straightened out her accounts; she had a horror of being behind with them. So she was sitting quite alone working busily, when Eugenia Ford came in. Eugenia’s pretty face was tear-stained, her eyes were swollen half shut, and her whole appearance was as limp and woebegone as it usually was alert and aggressive. She hesitated for a minute, and then crossed quickly to Betty’s desk.
“Good-afternoon, Miss Ford,” Betty said cheerfully, tactfully ignoring the tear-stains, and then she waited, not knowing how to go on.
But Eugenia only nodded and stared at her in dumb misery, evidently afraid to speak lest the tears should start again.
So, “Won’t you sit down?” Betty suggested cordially. “Or did you want to go up and see Madeline and the Cakes? They’re behind the curtains in the loft, rehearsing.”
Eugenia dropped into a chair. “I’m not going home for Christmas,” she announced tremulously.
“Oh, aren’t you?” Betty began comfortingly. “Well, then you must certainly have a part in the Masque of the Cakes. You’d make a lovely Sugar Cooky, and I heard Madeline say they needed more.”
“I—I look like—a fr-fright,” choked Eugenia, stifling a sob, “if that’s how a sugar cooky looks, and I don’t want to see anybody b-but you.”
“All right,” Betty assured her hastily, “then you shan’t. There won’t be a soul in here now for a while. Please don’t feel so unhappy, but tell me what I can do to help you.”
“I’ve been warned in three different studies.” Eugenia’s voice was weighted with the tragic significance of her words. “And I th-thought I was doing beautifully,” she added, while two big tears rolled slowly down her soft cheeks. Eugenia dabbed at them with a very damp handkerchief.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” cried Betty sympathetically, racking her brains, meanwhile, to think why in the world Eugenia Ford had come to her with her tale of woe. “It’s the worst thing about freshman year, I think—the not being able to tell how you’ve done, nor what the teachers expect of you. I worried fearfully, I remember.”