Betty wished, quite unreasonably, that Marie’s memory for addresses was shorter, or her interest in Jim’s career less personal. Whatever Mr. O’Toole meant to build, it would probably be built in Montana; and Montana is a very, very long way from Harding. It was much nicer having Jim in New York.
Meanwhile Betty was far too busy to spend much thought on the O’Toole family’s affairs; when Mrs. O’Toole actually appeared on the scene, it would be time enough for bothering with her. 19—’s third year reunion was equally imminent and much more interesting. Of course the members who lived in Harding were depended upon to attend to all such details as boarding places and class supper, to plan for informal “stunt-meetings,” and to arrange a reunion costume that should go far ahead of that worn by any other returning class. Besides all this, the B. C. A.’s had decided to give a party for 19—. Madeline had glibly agreed to plan it, and had got as far as confiding to all her friends that this time she had really thought of something extra-specially lovely, when the Coach and Six took her to New York, and Agatha Dwight’s interest in the fairy play kept her there. At first the B. C. A.’s waited hopefully for her return. Then they held a solemn conclave to discuss their dilemma. But the only plans they could evolve seemed so prosaically commonplace beside Madeline’s most casual inspirations that they continued to wait, this time with the calmness born of despair. For the B. C. A. invitations had been sent out broadcast to all 19—ers, and though 19— could have an absurdly good time over “just any old thing,” it wasn’t “just any old thing” that they would expect of the B. C. A.’s. Finally Betty wrote to Roberta Lewis, who would be passing through New York on her way up to Harding. “Capture Madeline,” she ordered summarily. “Bring her up here if you can, but anyway make her tell you about the B. C. A. party. Don’t come away without her plans for it, on penalty of being put out of the Merry Hearts—almost.”
Luckily for Roberta, Madeline was easily captured. She was sulking in solitary state in her studio apartment, because, though Agatha Dwight liked the fairy play tremendously, no manager could be found to put it on.
“They say, ‘Stick to your old line,’” grumbled Madeline. “As if the one play I’ve written—about a modern woman—was a line. They say, ‘New York doesn’t care for fairies.’ As if every sensible person wasn’t born caring for fairies—the really-truly mystic sprites like mine. Oh, I suppose the thing’s not good enough! Anyway I won’t grumble about it any more. I’ll plan a B. C. A. party that will make dear old 19— laugh itself sick. Not a fairy party—a—a germ party, Roberta. You shall be the Ph. D. Germ—in an Oxford gown with a stunning scarlet hood. I shouldn’t wonder if Miss Ferris will lend you hers. Then there’ll be the Love Germ, and the Wedding Bells Germ, the Club Germ, the Society Germ, and the Germ of a Career. And little Betty Wales shall be the college girl that they all viciously attack. It shall be a play with a moral,—one of nice old Mary’s nice little morals. And the moral shall be: ‘It isn’t the Germ you like that gets you; it’s the Germ you can’t live without.’ Could you imagine life without a Ph.D., Roberta? If you could, then the modern microbes are still fighting their hardest for you, and the Love Germ will get you yet if you don’t watch out. But Betty is the ideal object for the attack of the modern microbes, because she’s a little of everything, except possibly clubs. Whereas, the Society microbe wouldn’t look at you, Roberta. It would run away at your approach.”
“Will you come up to Harding to-morrow?” asked Roberta anxiously, ignoring the aspersion upon her ability to be a society butterfly.
“This afternoon if you like,” Madeline returned, as calmly as if she hadn’t been implored by every mail for two weeks past to come up and help with the reunion arrangements.
The B.C.A. party turned out a Merry Hearts’ party. Roberta Lewis made a beautiful Ph. D. microbe, with her hair “scrunched back” under a mortar board, big spectacles, and a manner copied from an astronomy instructor who was universally known in Harding circles as Miss Prunes and Prisms. Roberta hadn’t acted since the senior play, she said, but she was in splendid form nevertheless. So was K., who, as the Pedagogic Microbe, delivered a speech founded on her personal experiences that brought down the house.
“You must each make up her own part,” Madeline told the cast, when they met for the first (and only) rehearsal. “I haven’t had time to write out the speeches. Babbie, you ought to know how to lobby for the society act. You liked it pretty well that first winter you were out of college. Eleanor, you’re in love; well, explain the sensation. Babe, you don’t act as if marriage was a failure; speak up for it. Nita, you’re not a really energetic club-woman, I’m happy to say, so here are some few ideas to help you out. I shall speak of a career from bitter experience. Betty, all you have to do is to look thoughtful while we talk, and scared while we fight for you. At the end, when we decide to give you your choice, you are to explain that, since the world is too full of a number of things,—namely modern microbes,—the thing to do is to shut your eyes and decide which one you can’t live without. And until you’ve decided, you propose to enjoy life all around. See? I’ll write out your speech, if I can get time, because it ought to be exactly right, to get the best effect. Fire away now, Roberta.”
The rehearsal proceeded amid wild confusion. Madeline coolly advised the cast to improve their lines, reminded them encouragingly that the costumes would help out wonderfully, and departed, to compose a new ploshkin song, while the supper committee, to whom she had promised it weeks before, waited patiently on her door-steps to seize and carry it to the printer.
The B. C. A. party was sandwiched in between a thunder-shower and the Glee Club’s commencement concert. The stage was an elm-shaded bank, the audience room as much of the adjacent back-campus as would hold 19—, and a few stray specimens of its fiancés, its husbands, and its babies. The “show” was cheered to the echo, and the “eats” which followed, carefully selected from the Tally-ho’s latest and most popular specialties, were voted as good as the show.