Shirley rang the bell and was admitted promptly. The sensation had arrived. The maid gave her one look, first surprised, then questioning. “Why Miss (Shirley did not catch the name),—are you masquerading already?” she said.
Shirley looked surprised in her turn. “Will you show me to my room, please, or to some one who will direct me? Or perhaps I should see the dean first.” That, Shirley knew, would probably be impossible, if she were at dinner. “I am Shirley Harcourt, and my arrangements were all made for me.” “Yes, certainly,” said the maid. “The dean is at dinner, but there is always some one in charge at the office during these first days. I will take you there.”
More than one curious glance the maid cast at Shirley as she showed her to the office. It was as if she could not believe her eyes, and Shirley, who had almost forgotten her Chicago experiences by this time, wondered if this were not some one from Chicago, who must know her “double.”
“It will be possible, I think, for you to have dinner,” said the maid. “I will be ready to see you when you are through in here. Miss Schiff, this is Miss Shirley Harcourt, who wants to see you about the room reserved for her.”
The maid was enjoying this introduction, it was very evident. She was quite a superior sort of maid, Shirley could see. Probably she was some girl who was paying her way with this part service. Shirley was accustomed to that in her college town. She dimly saw the neat office with its desks and safe, its tables and chairs. Miss Schiff was looking at her with bright amusement. “What in the world?” she asked. “Are you joking me, Emma? But no,—” Miss Schiff was looking at the traveling garb, the bag and the tired girlish face.
“I am Shirley Harcourt,” firmly said Shirley. “If you will find the list of girls and their rooms, you will see my name. I have been on a western trip and I could not get here before.”
“I see,” kindly said Miss Schiff. “Excuse me. I took you for some one else at first. I will look up the matter at once. Just sit down. You can go out to dinner with me presently.”
“Thank you, but my head aches a little and I should like bed better than anything else. I had a late lunch in Chicago, and then I had some fruit and a sandwich on the local train that brought me here. Probably they gave me the headache.”
“Perhaps a hot drink would help you,” Miss Schiff suggested, “but that is as you like.”
In a few moments Shirley knew the number of her room, and the maid whom Miss Schiff called Emma took her to a room on the second floor. It was already occupied, Shirley saw, but there stood her pretty cedar chest, already uncrated and ready to be unlocked for the sheets and pillow slips which must go on that comfortable looking single bed. The big portmanteau which had accompanied her on the western trip also stood on one side of the large closet.