Beatrice nodded. "You have a lot of pretty girls in 19—."
"To say nothing of having the college beauty," added Jean.
"Of course," said Beatrice. "Nobody in college can touch Eleanor Watson for looks. There she is now, talking to Betty Wales and Kate Denise."
"No," chuckled Jean, "that's Laura Perkins. Their back views are amazingly alike, but wait till you see Laura's face. No, the lady Eleanor wouldn't come to the game. She's in the sulks."
"Seems to be her chronic state nowadays," said Beatrice. "Talking to her is like walking on a hornet's nest. What's the particular cause of grievance to-day?"
"Oh, the committee didn't accept her basket-ball song," said Jean, "and I was on the committee."
Beatrice lifted her eyebrows. "She actually had the nerve to write—to hand one in?"
"Oh, that wasn't nervy," said Jean. "The girls wanted her to—l9— is awfully shy on poets. What I don't admire is her taste in fussing because it wasn't used."
Beatrice smiled significantly. "Did she tell you about her story?"
"What story?"