“Oh, now I think maybe she’ll run away again to come to my wedding,” sighed Babbie, in deep relief.
“After all, she hasn’t lost her sporting spirit,” Madeline rejoiced. “She’s the same old Betty Wales, better late than never, and quite capable of looking out for herself, as well as for all the bothering jobs and charities and incompetent friends and touchy millionaires and insistent suitors and helpful ideas and noble ambitions that clutch at her with octopus fingers and threaten to drag her down.”
“Don’t talk like a book, Madeline,” Mary criticized. “And don’t be too cock-sure that you’re right. Just because Betty couldn’t stand it another minute and has rushed to cover, so to speak, in our midst, I for one refuse to be convinced that she doesn’t need help in fighting the octopus.”
Betty brushed a rebellious curl out of her eyes with a tired little gesture, and stared curiously at the disputants. “What in the world are you talking about?” she demanded. “Mary dear, please explain, because Madeline’s explanations usually just mix things up more than ever.”
Mary explained, noisily assisted by all the other B. C. A.’s, including Madeline, who “explained” at length how forgiving she was by nature, advised Mary to adopt the proud peacock as her sacred bird, and finally demanded of Betty if she—Madeline—hadn’t been perfectly correct in saying that she—Betty—was perfectly capable of getting along all right, if only she was not hampered by one more bother,—the unasked advice and assistance of the B. C. A.’s.
“Of course you’re right, Madeline,” Betty assured her, stirring her tea absently and forgetting to eat any of her muffin. “I detest people who can’t get along alone. It’s silly to try to do a lot more than you can, and then expect somebody to come along and take it off your hands. I hope I’m not that kind.” Betty dropped her spoon with a clatter, and, sitting up very straight, faced the table with a tragic look in her eyes and a desperate, determined set to her soft red lips.
“Girls,” she began, with a sudden change of tone that matched her changed expression, “can you remember solid geometry? I can’t. I never did know anything about Latin prose, so there’s no reason why I should now. But not knowing the geometry worries me. I think it’s getting on my nerves. And then,” she went on, as the little circle only stared at her in curious silence, “Marie’s lit. notes are just a mess. Mine were too, and anyhow I’ve lost my note-book. Is yours here, Helen? Could I take it, and Christy’s? I’m sure I could manage if I had a decent note-book or two.”
“Speaking of clear and lucid explanations——” began Madeline slowly. Then she reached across the table to hug Betty comfortingly. “You shall have all the decent note-books in 19—, if you want them, you poor thing. And I’m truly sorry that mine isn’t one of them. As for solid geometry, I’ll wager that not a person in this crowd could demonstrate—is that the right word for it?—a single proposition. And as for Latin prose, it’s a gift from the gods. You can’t learn it. Even Professor Owen, who is a genius, can’t teach it. So stop worrying here and now, and eat that muffin before somebody is tempted beyond what she can bear, and a theft is committed in our midst.”
“Is all this trouble caused by Montana Marie O’Toole?” inquired Christy practically.
Betty nodded, being too busy with the muffin to speak.