Another day of school was put through before the party. But it was St. Valentine’s Day and lessons were in the background of thought, it must be said. There were delightful interludes of receiving and giving valentines, with little mysteries even more interesting now than in childish days. And as the messages of St. Valentine might be regarded as carrying more romantic meaning now, the whole was more interesting.
One of the girls handed Betty a valentine which she was sure was from Mickey Carlin. He had probably bought it that morning and had not thought she would get it in time if he mailed it. Another, which she had taken from their mail box before she left home, also before the arrival of the mail man, bore in tiny letters on a corner inside the name Andy. Andy Sanford was a good friend of hers and had been ever since a certain freshman party at Betty’s. The sentiment was somewhat sugary, Betty thought, but “anything goes on Valentine day,” she said to Carolyn, to whom she showed all her valentines without reservation.
Carolyn laughed at the verse, which expressed undying devotion, and remarked that even if Chet and “others” had gone to the university, they still had a few nice senior boys to make life interesting! There were quite a number, in fact, in the large senior class; and common interests, with working things out together made good friends. The “others” might be supposed, from Carolyn’s standpoint, to include Chauncey Allen, who had all at once become deeply interested in Carolyn during the latter part of his senior year.
But all other fun paled into insignificance at last in comparison with the evening’s entertainment. Betty tucked away her valentines, to be looked over again at some other time. In some excitement she made ready, running back and forth between her own and her sister’s room, for Doris, also was going to a party, though no costume was demanded.
“You look lovely, Betty,” said Doris, “and very different”—then both girls laughed at the implication.
“No hint that you are not ‘always beautiful,’ understand! And your black silk mask is fetching—but they may know you by those dimples, and your mouth, of course.”
“Oh, I don’t care,” said Betty. “I’ll do my best to ‘keep my identity hidden,’ the way the detective can always do in stories. But if they find out—after the first—let ’em. Besides other girls have dimples. What in the world did I have to have them for!” Betty was rather disgusted as she looked closely into the mirror and practiced on expressions.
As the gentlemen of the party were not to know the costumes of the ladies, the girls were either brought by their natural protectors, or sent for by Marcella, or arriving by taxi. Mr. Lee said that he would “martyr himself for the cause,” and tucked Betty’s colonial skirts inside of the family car with great assumption of concern. “May you be brought home as safely,” said he, letting her scramble out of the car as she would, when they reached the Waite home. “It’s not very far,” said she.
A few flakes of snow were falling, lit up by the electric lights everywhere. It was a lovely world that February night. Betty’s heart beat high as with several girls as excited as she, doubtless, she climbed the steps toward the hospitable door.
Not long after, she descended the stair into the wide hallway, almost a part of the drawing-room, full of gayly costumed young people by this time. It happened that no one was coming to enter with her, for the dressing room to which she had been shown was empty and the girls who were supposed to follow her had dashed into Marcella’s room with an exclamation over some picture there. They were Marcella’s friends, either from the university, or of the “sub-debs” who were not in school at all now. Marcella numbered some of these among her friends, girls who were waiting for their entrance into society.