“Wonderful!” I gasped to Thropper, whose tenor had added much to the dignity of that part.
“They do sing well, don’t they?” he commented.
A demure little woman in black, with a very set, white face, came to the reading desk and read a scripture lesson. Then the sober Dean, whose eyes knew every thought in that room and said so, gave some notices. There followed a prayer whose outstanding character was earnestness of expression, of theme, of length. Then the whole service was embroidered by three verses of another hymn, after which we fell in orderly lines and marched through the open doors, where an electric gong broke up the line into unorganized groups, scattering for the classrooms.
“Now for the President’s office,” announced Thropper, abruptly.
But a sudden pang of fear whipped across my thoughts.
“Oh, suppose I can’t enter, Thropper!” I exclaimed. “It has tasted so good, thus far!”
He patted me on the back, in his manly way, did Thropper, and heartened me by saying,
“Well, Priddy, if you like the first taste, I guess you’ll stay for the whole meal—if you are hungry!”
“Thanks, old fellow,” I said. “Take me to the President!”
He led me downstairs into a very busy office where some young women were typewriting, inscribing books, and where one dudish young man with up-combed, wavy hair, was flirting with a pretty, tan-cheeked girl who was supposed to be engrossed in the task of trimming a window shelf of geraniums.