“Well, anyhow she may not be a good judge of her own work, and may have sent me the worst when she meant to send the best. So I just told her that her contribution didn’t exactly meet our needs. It was poetry, Madeline. Fancy a ‘Song of Sleep’ by a freshman! I said I was sorry, but we had a lot of verse on hand (we have, you know, but it’s all Marion Lustig’s, and we can’t run her in every single month), and I advised her to try prose next time. I said I thought it would suit her style better, and that I hoped to hear from her again soon.”
“Very sweet,” said Madeline, “but I have an idea that Georgia may see through it.”
“Oh, no, she won’t,” declared Mary. “You have no idea how easy it is to take people in, especially freshmen. By the way, Madeline, where does Miss Ames live?”
Madeline hesitated. “Why, I really don’t know,” she said. “Where do freshmen live this year? She’s in one of the big off-campus houses, I suppose. You’d better ask Roberta.”
But Roberta hadn’t the least idea where Miss Ames lived. “I know her awfully well,” she said, “because she’s about the best friend of a friend of mine; but I haven’t got around to call yet. Perhaps I could find out for you, Mary.”
“Oh, it’s no matter,” Mary assured her. “I can just put the bundle on the bulletin board with her class on it; but I thought it would look friendly and interested to put on the address.”
“Georgia wouldn’t care a bit about that,” declared Roberta. “She never notices little things. She’s rather dense, I think.”
“You do?” interposed Madeline indignantly. “Now I’ve found her quite the reverse,—and very interesting,—the little I’ve seen of her.”
“Well, she can’t write,” said Mary with decision, and being extremely near-sighted she missed the rapturous exchange of glances that passed between the two conspirators.