Betty’s eyes flashed angrily. “And in return for what she did, she expects me to work for her, no matter whether or not I think she would make the best Shylock. Is that what you mean, Bob?”
“Yes, but perhaps I was mistaken,” said Bob soothingly, “and any way I doubt if she ever says anything to you directly. She’ll just drop judicious hints in the ears of your worldly friends, who can be trusted to appreciate the debt of gratitude you owe her.”
“Bob.” Betty stared at her hard for a moment. “You don’t think—oh, of course you don’t! The parts in the play ought to go to the ones who can do them best and the committee ought not to think of anybody or anything but that.”
“And I know at least one committee woman who won’t think of anybody or anything but that,” declared Bob loyally. “I only thought I’d tell you about Jean so that, if she should say anything, you would be ready for her. Now I must go and study Bassanio,” and Bob departed murmuring,
“‘What find I here?
Fair Portia’s counterfeit?’”
in tones so amorous that Belden House Annie, who was sweeping on the stairs, dropped her dust-pan with a clatter, declaring that she was “jist overcome, that she was!”
“Which was the only compliment my acting of Bassanio ever got,” Bob told her sadly afterward.
Betty was still hot with indignation over Bob’s disclosures when Roberta Lewis knocked on the door. Roberta was wrapped up in a fuzzy red bath-robe, a brown sweater and a pink crêpe shawl, and she looked the picture of shivering dejection.
“What in the world is the matter?” demanded Betty, emptying her history notebooks out of the easy-chair and tucking Roberta in with a green and yellow afghan, which completed the variegated color scheme to perfection.
“Please don’t bother about me,” said Roberta forlornly. “I’m going back in a minute. I’ve lost my wedding-pin—Miss Hale’s wedding-pin—well, you know what I mean,—and caught a perfectly dreadful cold.”