“Then I think she’s in love,” declared little Helen Adams sedately. “She has a happy look in her eyes.”
“Bosh!” jeered Bob. “Mary isn’t the sentimental kind. I’ll bet she feels different after the spread.”
But though the spread was quite the grandest that had ever been seen at Harding, and though Mary seemed to enjoy it quite as heartily as her guests, who had conscientiously starved on campus fare for the week before it, it failed to arouse in her the proper enthusiasm for college functions.
On Tuesday “after partaking of a light but elegant noontide repast on me,” as Katherine put it, Mary declared her intention of taking a nap, and went to her room. But half an hour later, when Babbie tiptoed up to ask if she really meant to waste a glorious afternoon sleeping, and to put the runabout at her service, the room was empty, and Mary turned up again barely in time for the grand dinner at Cuyler’s.
“We were scared to death for fear you’d forgotten us,” said Madeline, helping her off with her wraps. “Where have you been all this time?”
“Why, dressing,” explained Mary, wearing her most innocent expression. “It takes ages to get into this gown, but it’s my best, and I wanted to do honor to your very grand function.”
“That dress was lying on your bed when I stopped for you exactly fifteen minutes ago,” declared Bob triumphantly. “So you’ll have to think of another likely tale.”
Mary smiled her “beamish” smile.
“Well, I came just after you’d gone and isn’t fourteen minutes to waste on dressing an age? If you mean where was I before that, why my nap wasn’t a success, so I went walking, and it was so lovely that I couldn’t bear to come in. These hills are perfectly fascinating after the city.”
“You little fraud,” cried Madeline. “You hate walking, and you can’t see scenery——”