Betty looked doubtfully at Roberta. “Shall we?” she said.
“I don’t mind,” answered Roberta, “if only you all promise not to tell my father. He wouldn’t understand. Do you suppose Miss Watson would play?”
“If not, I will,” said Mary Rich.
“And we could use the money for a house spread,” added Betty, “since we all help to earn it.”
“And christen the chafing-dish,” put in Katherine.
“Good. Then I’ll tell them–Mondays, Tuesdays and Fridays,” said Rachel; and the dinner-table dissolved.
CHAPTER IV
WHOSE PHOTOGRAPH?
The dancing class went briskly on; so did the Livy class and the geometry, the English 1, the French required and the history elective. The freshmen were getting acquainted with one another now, and seldom confused their classmates with seniors or youthful members of the faculty. They no longer attempted to go out of chapel ahead of the seniors, or invaded the president’s house in their frantic search for Science Hall or the Art Gallery. For October was fast wearing away. The hills about Harding showed flaming patches of scarlet, and it was time for the sophomore reception and Mountain Day. Betty was very much excited about the reception, but she felt also that a load would slip off her shoulders when it was over. She was anxious about the progress of the dancing pupils, who had increased to five, besides Helen and Adelaide, and for whom she felt a personal responsibility, because the Chapin house girls persisted in calling the class hers. And what would father say if they didn’t get their money’s worth? Then there was Helen’s dress for the reception, which she was sure was a fright, but couldn’t get up the courage to inquire about. And last and worst of all was the mysterious grind-book and Dorothy King’s warning about father’s telegram to the registrar. She had never mentioned the incident to anybody, but from certain annoying remarks that Mary Brooks let fall she was sure that Mary knew all about it and that the sophomores were planning to make telling use of it.
“How’s your friend the registrar?” Mary would inquire solemnly every few days. And if Betty refused to answer she would say slyly, “Who met you at the station, did you tell me? Oh, only Dottie King?” until Betty almost decided to stop her by telling the whole story.