But Roberta turned back from the window to shake her head. “I wouldn’t have you do that for anything,” she said, brushing away the tears. “I’ll try for something else if I get well in time. I’m going to bed now. Will you please ask Annie to bring up my dinner? And Betty, don’t ever say I meant to try for Shylock. I don’t know why I told you, except that you always understand.”
Betty felt that she didn’t quite understand this time, but she promised to tell Annie and come in late herself to conduct another search for the missing pin. She had just succeeded in dismissing Ted, Jean and Roberta from her mind and concentrating it on the next day’s history lesson, when Helen Adams appeared.
“Helen,” began Betty solemnly, “if you’ve got any troubles connected with trying for parts in the play, please don’t divulge them. I don’t believe I can stand any more complications.”
“Poor thing!” said Helen compassionately. “I know how you feel from the times I have with the ‘Argus.’ Well, I shan’t bother you about trying for a part. I should just love to act, but I can’t and I know it. I only wanted to borrow some tea, and to tell you that Anne Carter has come to return my call. You know you said you’d like to meet her.”
So Betty brushed her curls smooth and, stopping to pick up Madeline on her way, went in to meet Miss Carter, whose shyness and silence melted rapidly before Betty’s tactful advances and Madeline’s appreciative references to her verses in the last “Argus.”
While Helen made the tea, Miss Carter amused them all with a droll account of her efforts to learn to play basket-ball, “because Miss Adams says it throws so much light on the philosophy of college life.”
“Then you never played before you came here?” asked Betty idly, stirring her tea.
Miss Carter shook her head. “I prepared for college in a convent in Canada. The sisters would have been horribly shocked at the idea of our tearing about in bloomers and throwing a ball just like the boys.”
“Oh!” said Betty, with a sudden flash of recognition. “Then it was at the convent where you got the beautiful French accent that mademoiselle raves over. You’re in my senior French class. I ought to have remembered you.”
“I’m glad you didn’t,” said Miss Carter bitterly, and then she flushed and apologized. “I’m so ugly that I’m always glad not to be remembered or noticed. But I didn’t mean to say so, and I do hope you’ll come to see me, both of you,—if seniors ever do come to see sophomores.”