“You’ve heard now,” returned Leila, the twinkle in her eye evident. “After tonight, oh, how many things we shall be hearing! After the ball is over we shall be at one, I hope, with the Sanford five. If so, then the crowd of us ought to be able to work together for a more congenial condition of affairs at the Hall. The Sans are trying hard to run it and overrun us. They make it hard for Miss Remson, and it is a shame. If enough of us stand together for our rights, they will have to respect them. They won’t like us, but, then, do we admire them?”
“If things turn out tonight as we have planned, the Sans will be raving. Do you think it is perfectly fair to Miss Dean, Leila?” Vera’s tones carried a slight anxiety.
“Yes, I do, Midget,” came the instant reply. “She won’t like it, perhaps. Still it can’t do anything more than make her unpopular with the Sans. She is that, already, as I happen to know. If she is the girl I think her, she will simply pay no attention to them. Set your mind easy. We are doing her a service.”
CHAPTER XVIII.—A DISCOMFITED SAN SOUCIAN.
When, at eight o’clock, Leila Harper knocked on Marjorie’s door, the vision who opened it brought a gleam of triumph to her bright blue eyes. Marjorie was wearing the frock of Chinese crêpe and looking her beautiful, young-girl best in it. The dress was exquisite enough in itself. Worn by her it seemed invested with fresh beauty. In turn, it lent to her a certain soft loveliness which no other frock she had ever possessed had brought out.
“Oh, my stars, what a dream you are, little Miss Dean!” praised Leila, laughingly adopting a touch of brogue which she used to perfection. Inwardly she was so delighted she could have squealed for joy. Her appraising eyes instantly picked Marjorie’s frock as unique.
Veronica, who was talking animatedly to Vera, her escort, as she drew on her long gloves, looked equally charming in her own way. She was attired in an imported gown of pleated French chiffon in two shades of silvery gray. It was banded about the square neck and very short pleated sleeves with black velvet ribbon on which were embroidered a Persian pattern of silver stars. The wide black velvet ribbon sash was also thickly star-studded, as were her black satin slippers.
Jerry, who had gone on with Helen, was wearing a stunning gown of old gold satin with deeper gold embroideries. Lucy, thanks to Veronica, had had the severity of her white organdie graduation gown transformed by a fine white lace overdress which Ronny had fairly forced upon her, together with a pale green satin sash with fringed ends, a pair of embroidered white silk stockings and a pair of white satin slippers. Muriel, who had also gone ahead with her ceremonious escort, was the true Picture Girl, as Marjorie loved to call her, in a pale lavender silk net over lavender taffeta. At her belt she wore a huge bunch of lavender orchids, for which gallant Moretense had sent to New York.
The gymnasium was not far from Wayland Hall, therefore the democratic element of sophomores who lived there had not favored taking their freshmen to the dance in automobiles. Leila Harper, Hortense Barlow and Vera Mason had their own motor cars at Hamilton, in a near-by garage, but common sense smiled at using them in preference to the short walk under the twinkling autumn stars.
“Don’t forget your violets, Marjorie,” called Veronica over her shoulder, as she went out the door. “I’ll wait for you downstairs. Pardon me, I forgot I was being escorted,” she made laughing apology to Vera. “We’ll wait for you, I should have said.”