“You never made any mistakes, Betty Lee.”
“What nonsense! But you mean well, Peggy.”
With smiles the girls parted, Betty to go to the pool and Peggy to swing and exercise with the general equipment. Rosy and invigorated after her swim and shower, Betty reached home at last to find everything in an atmosphere of valentines. Doris had stopped to purchase a dozen or more and called Betty into her room to see them. She was addressing envelopes at her desk, a cherished acquisition of Christmas time.
“Aren’t these pretty ones, Betty? I don’t think I’ll send any comics, unless some pretty respectable ones to a few of the girls. I almost got one for you, Betty—a real cute and crazy one of a girl, with a violin, that thought she could play. But the verse wasn’t very smart. I could have made up a better one myself.”
“Hum,” said Betty. “This is Betty Lee—who thinks that she can play.”
“But she may find out better,” suggested Doris, and Betty finished it with, “At no far distant day.”
“Let’s write a book of ‘pomes,’ Betty,” laughed Doris, “like Alice and Phoebe Gary.”
“Great! You write the first few; and we’d better let Dick in on it, too, for some way I don’t feel the poetic urge just now.”
“What’s that about the poetic urge?” asked Dick Lee, appearing at Doris’ open door. “May I come in? Gee, it’s nice and warm in here. The wind’s blowing in the direction of my room and we’re having some snow—ha-ha! Won’t it be great if we have skating again? No February thaw for me!”
Dick had his hands full of papers and asked if the girls wanted to see a work of art. Naturally they did, though Doris did remark that it depended on whose work of art it was.