CHAPTER XIII
SAINT VALENTINE’S ASSISTANTS
If Eleanor had taken Kate’s advice and indulged in a little calm reflection, she would have realized how absolutely reasonless was her anger against Betty Wales. Betty had been told of the official objections which made it necessary for Eleanor to be withdrawn from the debate. Her action, then, had been wholly proper and perfectly friendly. But Eleanor was in no mood for reflection. A wild burst of passion held her firmly in its grasp. She hated everybody and everything in Harding–the faculty who had made such a commotion about two little low grades–for Eleanor had come surprisingly near to clearing her record at mid-years,–Jean, who had stupidly brought all this extra annoyance upon her; the class, who were glad to get rid of her, Betty, who–yes, Jean had been right about one thing–Betty, who had taken advantage of a friend’s misfortune to curry favor for herself. They were all leagued against her. But–here the Watson pride suddenly asserted itself–they should never know that she cared, never guess that they had hurt her.
She deliberately selected the most becoming of her new evening gowns, and in an incredibly short time swept down to dinner, radiantly beautiful in the creamy lace dress, and–outwardly at least–in her sunniest, most charming mood. She insisted that the table should admire her dress, and the pearl pendant which her aunt had just sent her.
“I’m wearing it, you see, to celebrate my return to the freedom of private life,” she rattled on glibly. “I understand you’ve found a genius to take my place. I’m delighted that we have one in the class. It’s so convenient. Who of you are going to the Burton House dance to-night?”
So she led the talk from point to point and from hand to hand. She bantered Mary, deferred to Helen and the Riches, appealed in comradely fashion to Katherine and Rachel. Betty alone she utterly, though quite unostentatiously, ignored; and Betty, too much hurt to make any effort, stood aside and tried to solve the riddle of Eleanor’s latest caprice. On the way up-stairs Eleanor spoke to her for the first time. She went up just ahead of her and at the top of the flight she turned and waited.
“I understand that you quite ran the class to-day,” she said with a flashing smile. “The girls tell me that you’re a born orator, as good in your way as the genius in hers.”
Betty rallied herself for one last effort. “Don’t make fun of me, Eleanor. Please let me come in and tell you about it. You don’t understand—”
“Possibly not,” said Eleanor coldly. “But I’m going out now.”
“Just for a moment!”