A week later “The Merry Hearts” were in Betty’s room, celebrating Rachel’s election to the class presidency. They had taken Mary’s advice and decided to let senior year shift for itself. Mary had sent word that she couldn’t get around until late in the evening. Her own sketch department in the “Argus” was made up, but the literary editor still needed a “semi-heavy” (which is the Harding editors’ slang for a light essay); and, in return for many similar favors, Mary had joined her in a house-to-house canvas for an available argumentative or a Carlyle paper. It was nine o’clock when she arrived at the presidential spread.
“Did you find it?” asked Betty, taking her wraps.
Mary nodded. “Such as it is. I wanted to give up and use a story, but Nora said it wouldn’t do at all; every exchange from Boston to San Francisco would have an article about the frothy foam that the Harding ‘Argus’ was printing. Roberta, you know you can write. Why don’t you do us some essays? They are a lot easier to write than stories. You just have to look up your subject and think of a clever beginning and a few sketchy sentences that Dr. Eaton would call suggestive because they don’t mean anything in particular. I can’t see why more of the literary crowd doesn’t go in for essays.”
“You ought to have recommended essays to Georgia Ames,” said Madeline, with a polite smile in Roberta’s direction. Roberta had told her a day or two before that Georgia had “tried prose,” but she had not heard the result of the second venture.
“Recommended essays to Georgia Ames!” repeated Mary wearily. “No, Madeline, I don’t believe she could even do an essay. I ought to have taken your advice and told her plainly that she couldn’t write.”
“Has she bobbed up again?” asked Katherine.
“Yes, with a story—novelette you might call it, for it’s desperately long. I brought it with me, so that Madeline and Roberta can see what atrocities their clever young friend is guilty of.”
Sudden terror froze Roberta into speechless immobility, and she sank helplessly back against the couch pillows, while Madeline, shrieking with glee, demanded the whereabouts of the manuscript, and drew it triumphantly from Mary’s ulster pocket.
“Why not read it aloud?” asked Katherine. “It isn’t time to eat yet, and we’ve congratulated Rachel until she’s tired.”