In the interval that followed, Marjorie had an opportunity to study Ruth’s face. The girl was vainly striving for control; she was attempting with that artificial smile of hers to cover the feeling in her heart. But Marjorie knew her well enough to read her like a book.
“Ruth’s disappointed,” she thought to herself; “of course she didn’t want Frieda or me to compete tomorrow.”
She was surprised to find Harold Mason most cordial, for she knew he had never liked her. He even went out of his way to come over to the couch hammock where she was seated, and start a conversation with her, asking her all about her experiences. But she longed to forget all about it; so, at the first opportunity, she changed the subject.
“By the way, you aren’t a scout, are you?” she asked him, as they watched Bob Felton reappear from the house.
“Hardly!” he replied, loftily. “I’m a college man!”
“Yes, I know,” said Marjorie; “but so is John, yet he still considers himself a scout, don’t you, John?”
“Indeed I do!” answered the young man, glad to be noticed again by Marjorie. “Once a scout, always a scout, even though you are too old to be an active member.”
“I’m not one of the party,” explained Harold. “I just dropped in as I passed by, to see Ruth. I’m leaving tomorrow.”
Marjorie glanced at Ruth for the reason for this assertion, for she knew that the hospitable host and hostess would be glad to include him in their party, had Ruth desired it. She saw however that the latter was deeply engrossed in Griffith Hunter, a wealthy young regular at Silvertown, and evidently had no eyes for Harold.
Marjorie and Frieda and some of the others went to their rooms while Ruth took the former’s place on the couch hammock, conveying with her eyes an invitation for Griffith to join her. But instead he lighted a cigarette, and leaned against the porch rail.