Marjorie laughed lightly; she had learned to be a philosopher.
“They certainly do get provoked easily,” she remarked. “But I think Queenie was in the right——those girls never exerted themselves in the least way to pass that tenderfoot test.”
“Then you mean to uphold her in keeping them out of the troop?”
“I don’t think there will be any effort attached to it. They probably never would bother to study to get into it.”
John looked relieved; he had feared that the little scene would mean anxiety for Marjorie.
“Then I’ll leave you to your studies all day tomorrow,” he concluded, as he left her.
Marjorie intended to be as good as her word. While the other girls loitered in the dining-room over their breakfast on Sunday morning, or strolled into the library to look over the magazines and papers on the tables, she went directly to her own room, and assembled her Latin books. It was thus employed that Lily found her, after church.
“Going to spend the afternoon with John, Marj?” she inquired, dropping down upon the couch.
“No,” replied her room-mate, without raising her eyes from the dictionary she was consulting—“with Horace.”
“Horace!” repeated Lily, failing to catch the significance of the remark. “His name isn’t Horace. It’s Walter.”