Binks, who was sitting on the divan, stood up politely. “It is. Did you want to write, perhaps? Because if so, I’ll go away.”
The poetess sank gracefully down among the cushions, pillowing her cheek in one white hand.
“I’ve put paper out here in plain sight,” Binks told her, “and please try not to spill the ink. Good-bye.”
“Don’t stay too long,” commanded the poetess dreamily. “I shall want to read things to you a little later.”
“All right,” Binks promised, and hurried off to find Georgia.
“I want to ask you to do something for me,” she began abruptly.
Georgia frowned at the stupid mistake she had made about Binks’s unworldliness, and shut the door. “Is it about Dramatic Club?” she asked. “Because you know, Binks,—or rather I suppose you don’t know,—that girls are not supposed to ask any member to help them get in. But I don’t mind telling you that I’ll do my best for you, and I think all the others will.”
Binks waited patiently for Georgia to finish. “I understand that, Georgia,” she began. “I mean that I know, even though I am rather out of things here, that it’s not Harding custom to act as if you wanted to be in anything. You must just pretend you don’t care. I try to act that way, but I can’t, about things that I really do want.”
Georgia looked troubled. “But, Binks, it will queer you hopelessly if you give yourself away about Dramatic Club. Promise me solemnly that you won’t ask anybody else to help pull you in.”
Binks sighed. “I’ve got to go back in a minute, and I came about something special. Dramatic Club isn’t a thing I really do want, Georgia. Why, I don’t know enough about it to think whether I want it or not. But I’ve discovered something again, and I’m such a ’fraid cat that I thought maybe you’d tell Miss Wales—that is, if you think she ought to know.”