Hattie’s was the Field of Learning, and she stood, with obstacles trod under heel, crowned with honours. Hattie meant to be valedictorian some day, nor did Miss MacLauren doubt Hattie would be.
Rosalie’s was a different Field. Hers was strewn with victims; victims whose names were Boys.
It was Rosalie’s Field, Miss MacLauren, in her heart, longed to enter. But how did Rosalie do it? She raised her eyes and lowered them, and the victims fell. But everyone could not be a Rosalie.
And Hattie looked pityingly upon Rosalie’s way of life, and Rosalie laughed lightly at Hattie.
Miss MacLauren admired Hattie, but, secretly, she envied Rosalie. If she had known how, she herself would have much preferred Boys to Brains; one is only a Minerva as second choice.
To be sure there was William. Oh, William! He is taken for granted, and besides, Miss MacLauren is becoming sensitive because there was no one but William.
The next day she was approached by Hattie and Rosalie, who each had a note. They mentioned it casually, but Hattie’s tone had a ring. Was it satisfaction? And Rosalie’s laugh was touched with gratification, for the notes were official, inviting them, too, to become Platonians.
“Thinking it over,” said Hattie, “I’ll join; one owes something to class-spirit.”
“It’s so alluring—the sound,” said Rosalie. “A secret anything.”
Miss MacLauren, thinking it over, herself, after she reached home that day, suddenly laughed.