In the weeks that followed Betty saw a great deal of Georgia, who seemed intent on showing her gratitude for the splendid time that Betty had given her. Betty, for her part, felt that she owed Georgia far more than Georgia owed her and found many pleasant ways of showing her contrition for a doubt that, do her best, she couldn’t wholly stifle. The more she saw of Georgia, the more clearly she noticed that there was something odd about the behavior of the self-contained little freshman, and also that she was worrying a good deal and letting nobody know the reason.
“But it’s not conditions or warnings or anything of that sort,” Georgia’s round-eyed roommate declared solemnly to Betty, in a burst of confidence about the way she was worrying over Georgia. “She sits and thinks for hours sometimes, and doesn’t answer me if I speak to her. And she says she doesn’t care whether she gets a chance to play in the big game or not. Just imagine saying that, Miss Wales.”
“She’s tired,” suggested Betty loyally. “She’ll be all right after vacation.”
Meanwhile, in the less searching eyes of the college world, Georgia continued to be the spoiled child of fortune. She came back from the prom, with glowing tales of the good times she had had, and whether or not she cared about it she was the only “sub” who got a chance to play in the big game. She made two goals, while Betty clapped for her frantically and her class made their side of the gallery actually tremble with the manifestations of their delight.
It was just as Betty was leaving the gym on the afternoon of the game that Jean Eastman overtook her.
“Could you come for a walk?” she asked abruptly. “There is something I want to get settled before vacation. It won’t take long. It’s about Bassanio,” she went on, when they had gotten a little away from the crowd. “I want to give up my part. Do you suppose Mary Horton would take it now?”
“You want to give up Bassanio?” Betty repeated wonderingly.
“Yes. There’s no use in mincing matters. I did have a condition in French, and Miss Carter was tutoring me, just as you thought. I had worked it off the day I answered your note, but of course that doesn’t alter anything. They say mademoiselle never hands in her records for one semester until the next one is almost over, so nothing would have come to light until it was too late for a new person to learn the part. Don’t look so astonished, Betty. It’s been done before and it may be done again, but I don’t care for it myself.” Then, as Betty continued to stare at her in horrified silence, “If you’re going to look like that, I might as well have kept the part. The reason I decided to give it up was because I didn’t think I should enjoy seeing your face at the grand dénouement. You see, when you and Eleanor came in that afternoon I thought you’d guessed or that Barbara Gordon and Teddie Wilson, who knew of a similar case, had, and had sent you up to make sure. But after you’d apologized for your note and squared things with Eleanor, I—well, I didn’t think I should enjoy seeing your face,” ended Jean, with a little break in her voice. “I—told you I had a sense of honor, and I have.”
Betty put out her hand impulsively. “I’m glad you changed your mind, Jean. It’s too bad that you can’t have a part, but you wouldn’t want it in any such way.”
“I did though,” said Jean, blinking back the tears. “I knew it would come out in the end,—I counted on that, and I shouldn’t have minded Miss Stuart’s rage or the committee’s horror. But you’re so dreadfully on the square. You make a person feel like a two-penny doll. I don’t wonder that Eleanor Watson has changed about a lot of things. Anybody would have to if they saw much of you.”