“Did you hear about my dormitory girls? I invited them, and they accepted. Then they had unexpected checks sent them from home and away they went. I wandered around looking for some checkless, invitationless dorms. There were no such stoojents.” Muriel declared good-humoredly. “I supposed of course you were dated ahead for the holidays. Then I asked you, and found you weren’t. I was so glad. I’d have felt sorry to think of you poking around the campus over Christmas alone. You’re so far from home, you see. Marjorie said the same and—”
“I don’t wish anyone to be sorry for me.” Doris’s almost fierce utterance checked Muriel’s flow of cheery volubility.
“All right. I’m not sorry a bit. You only dreamed I was,” she retorted in a tone of gay raillery.
“I’m not jesting. I am serious.” Doris drew herself up, a slim figure of affronted dignity. All that Julia had said of Muriel was true. Only one question, and Muriel had then practically admitted saying almost the exact words Julia had quoted as hers.
“Oh-h-h?” Muriel voiced the monosyllable questioningly. Her bright expression faded into concern. “Serious about what?” she asked.
“About not wishing you or Miss Dean or any of your friends to be sorry for me. I have plenty of friends—delightful friends. Why, I’ve refused half a dozen Christmas invitations! I have changed my mind about going home with you. I’m not going. I shall go to New York instead. I might have liked you, if you hadn’t tried to pity me behind my back. That was worse than to my face. Please tell Miss Dean to mind her own affairs. I am not a welfare experiment.”
Doris delivered the long answer to Muriel’s question in a voice that grew more scornful with each word. She busied herself as she sputtered forth her displeasure with the donning of hat and coat. With “experiment” she snatched the letter she had written to Leslie Cairns from the portfolio, hastily affixed a stamp to the envelope and rushed from the room. Muriel watched her go, divided between vexation and perplexity. What under the sun had happened to the Ice Queen?
CHAPTER X.
THE COMING OF ST. NICK
“You know, if you are good, Santa Claus will surely visit you on Christmas eve,” Marjorie was gravely saying to the bright-faced, alert little old lady ensconced in a big cushiony chair before the cheerful open fireplace. Marjorie emphasized her injunction with gentle little shakes of a forefinger.