But Mary’s pensive melancholy persisted, in spite of Katherine’s raillery and Roberta’s kindly attentions. Mary took much satisfaction in being what she called “a scholar and a gentleman.” She was very proud of her place on the “Argus” board, and even prouder of the consideration paid her by her “little friends,” as she dubbed the rest of “The Merry Hearts.” Now she felt that she had forfeited their respect, and at the same time played false to the trust which an “Argus” editorship involved. She did no justice to the creamy marsh-mallow fudge, took no part in the gay banter that gives the Harding spread its peculiar charm. And Roberta watched her with growing compunction. Mary was her idol. She had meant to win her point, but she had never contemplated hurting Mary’s feelings. She stood it as long as she could, then strolled casually over to Madeline’s corner, and the two held a whispered conference.
Madeline listened, laughed, and swept the story into a neat pile. With it in one hand and arm in arm with Roberta, she advanced to Mary’s seat.
“Allow me,” she said with a low bow, “to present you with this rejected manuscript (which, by the way, Roberta, is stunningly good in spots), and also with a busted bubble, namely, Roberta Lewis’s literary career.”
“Yes,” put in Roberta eagerly. “Now I hope you’ll stop telling me to write. That’s my story, and the ‘Song of Sleep’ was mine too.”
“Really!” Mary’s surprise fairly overwhelmed her. “I—I can’t believe it.”
“So it wasn’t any matter about your offering to let us read it. That is, I mean I deserved to have you,” added Roberta, cheerfully intent on making her sacrifice complete.
“Here Roberta, be careful,” cried Madeline. “You’re letting her off too easily. Come on, girls, and help me to rub it in.”
“The Merry Hearts” did not cease to “rub it in” on all occasions, convenient or otherwise, as long as Mary stayed at Harding College.