Marjorie, too, had enjoyed the situation immensely; for while she usually disliked seeing anyone disappointed, Ruth had been so over-confident, and so scornful of Lily the preceding year, that she could not help being glad of the outcome. Then, a sudden thought struck her.
"You asked me what I'd do, Lil," she said. "I'd advise you to enlist Ruth's help!"
"Ruth Henry?" This in consternation.
"Yes; for this reason: she has had a big disappointment in not being elected herself, and I know Ruth well enough to realize that when she is disappointed, she often gets spiteful. So, if you take my advice, you will make her your friend before she has a chance to become your enemy!"
Lily weighed carefully the suggestion put forth by her room-mate. She nodded her head slightly in her approval of the plan.
"I guess you're right," she said. "I had, of course, thought of consulting Doris, and I suppose I might as well include Ruth. It can't do any harm."
The next day was one of those beautiful mild days that would seem to belong rather to summer than to autumn. The windows all over the school were wide open; the sound of lawn-mowers could be heard in the distance; the drowsy warmth of the air made the girls think of Commencement time.
Resolutely putting aside her desire to be lazy, and oppressed by the thought of her official duties, Lily Andrews decided to devote the afternoon to a consultation with Doris Sands, the out-going president.
But Marjorie shared no such cares. Freed from hockey practice, and planning to study her lessons in the evening, her thoughts flew to her canoe—that beautiful prize she had won at the summer camp. What could possibly be more delightful than an afternoon spent in paddling and drifting about the lake, with her copy of Alfred Noyes' poems to glance into now and then? The idea was so alluring that she could hardly force herself to sit through luncheon.
As a rule Marjorie Wilkinson was a sociable being—she enjoyed other girls' companionship, and possessed an unusual quality of friendliness. But to-day she felt dreamy; she longed to get away from everybody, where conversation would be unnecessary, and where she could give herself up to her own drowsy imaginings. For she had many happy things to think about. That very morning she had received a letter—nothing thrilling in it, but just an interesting, boyish account of activities at Princeton—whose signature had made her heart beat more rapidly. For it was from John Hadley, the boy whom she had liked and admired most of all the Boy Scouts the previous year. The very fact that he should still think of her amidst all the rush of his busy college life flattered her, and set her to dreaming.