She had thought of consulting Jane or Marion Lustig, who was editor-in-chief, but she knew beforehand what either of them would say. “Put in your own verse, silly child! Why didn’t you say you’d like it used in the other department? We’ve got to blow our own horns if we want them blown. Use the others next time—or give them back.”
But by next month there might be an embarrassment of good material, and as for giving them back, Jane could do it easily enough, but Helen, being queer, couldn’t. For who knew how much getting into the “Argus” might mean to that unknown other girl? Helen had never so much as heard her name before, though she was a sophomore. She had a premonition that she was queer too, and lonely and unhappy. The verses were very sad, and somehow they sounded true.
“Perhaps she’ll be an editor some day,” Helen sighed. “Anyway I’ll give her a chance.”
She put on her coat and gathered up her manuscripts, first folding her own verses and pushing them vindictively into the depths of her own particular drawer in the sanctum table.
When she reached the Davidson she noticed with relief that Miss Raymond’s windows were dark. She was in time then. But when she knocked on the half-opened door she was taken aback to hear Miss Raymond’s voice saying, “Come in,” out of the shadows.
“Oh, excuse me!” began Helen in a frightened voice. “I’ve brought you the material for the sketch department. Please don’t bother about a light. I mustn’t stay.”
But Miss Raymond went on lighting the lamp on her big table. As she stood for a moment full in the glare of it, Helen noticed that she looked worn and tired.
“I’m very sorry that I disturbed you,” she said sadly. “You were resting.”
Miss Raymond shook her head. “Not resting. Thinking. Do you like to think, Miss Adams?”
“Why—yes, I suppose so,” answered Helen doubtfully. “Isn’t that what college is supposed to teach us to do?”