But before the game there was the concert. Jack Burgess, having missed his connections, arrived in Harding exactly twenty-seven minutes before it began. As they drove to the theatre he inquired if Betty had received all three of his telegrams.
“Yes,” laughed Betty, “but I got the last one first. The other two were evidently delayed. You’ve kept me guessing, I can tell you.”
“Glad of that,” said Jack cheerfully, as he helped her out of the carriage. “That’s what you’ve kept me doing for just about a month. But I’ve manfully suppressed my curiosity and concealed the wounds in my bleeding heart until I could make inquiries in person.”
“What in the world do you mean, Jack?” asked Betty carelessly. Jack was such a tease.
Just then they were caught in the crowd that filled the lobby of the theatre, and conversation became impossible as they hurried through it and into the theatre itself.
“Checks, please,” said a businesslike little usher in pink chiffon, and Jack and Betty followed her down the aisle. The theatre was already nearly full, and it looked like a great flower garden, for the girls all wore light evening gowns, for which the black coats of the men made a most effective background; while the odor of violets and roses from the great bunches that many of the girls carried strengthened the illusion.
“Jove, but this is a pretty thing!” murmured Jack, who had never been in Harding before. “Is this all college?”
“Yes,” said Betty proudly, “except the men, of course. And don’t they all look lovely?”
“Who–the men?” asked Jack. Then he gave a sudden start. “Bob Winchester, by all that’s wonderful!”
“Who is he?” said Betty idly. “Another Harvard man? Jack”–with sudden interest, as she recognized the name–“what did you mean by that postscript?”