Betty winked hard to keep back the tears as she hurried to her own room. What could it all mean? She had done her best for Eleanor, and nobody had guessed–they had been too busy laughing at that ridiculous Emily Davis–and now Eleanor treated her like this. And Jean Eastman, too, when she had done exactly what Jean wanted of her. Jean’s curtness was even less explainable than Eleanor’s, though it mattered less. It was all–queer. Betty smiled faintly as she applied Alice Waite’s favorite adjective. Well, there was nothing more to be done until she could see Eleanor after dinner. So she wiped her eyes, smoothed her hair, and went resolutely off to find Roberta, whose heavy shoes–another of Roberta’s countless fads–had just clumped past her door.
“I’m writing my definitions for to-morrow’s English,” announced Roberta. “For the one we could choose ourselves I’m going to invent a word and then make up a meaning for it. Isn’t that a nice idea?”
“Very,” said Betty listlessly.
Roberta looked at her keenly. “I believe you’re homesick,” she said. “How funny after such a jubilant afternoon.”
Betty smiled wearily. “Perhaps I am. Anyway, I wish I were at home.”
Meanwhile in Eleanor’s room an acrimonious discussion was in progress.
“The more I think of it,” Kate Denise was saying emphatically, “the surer I am that she didn’t do a thing against us this afternoon. She isn’t to blame for having started a landslide by accident, Jean. Did you see her face when Eleanor turned her down just now? She looked absolutely nonplussed.”
“Most people do when the lady Eleanor turns and rends them,” returned Jean, with a reminiscent smile.
“Just the same,” continued Kate Denise, “I say you have a lot to thank her for this afternoon, Jean Eastman. She got you out of a tight hole in splendid shape. None of us could have done it without stamping the whole thing a put-up job, and most of the outsiders who could have helped you out, wouldn’t have cared to oblige you. It was irritating to see her rallying the multitudes, I’ll admit; but I insist that it wasn’t her fault. We ought to have managed better.”
“Say I ought to have managed better and be done with it,” muttered Jean crossly.