“There!” she exclaimed, as she addressed an envelope to Alma Hurst at Acasia House. “That unpleasant labor is out of the way.”
“Let me read it?” begged Jerry. “You need my official criticism.”
“Read it, then. You don’t allow me to have any secrets from you,” Marjorie complained in feigned vexation.
“No indeed,” emphasized Jerry. “Good work,” she approved, having read the letter. “The real straight-from-the-shoulder variety. That ought to give pause to the Amalgamated Sorehead Society. That’s a fine name for them. I shall tell it to Gloomy Gus when she and I grow to be bosom friends.”
“Better not,” warned Marjorie, breaking into laughter. “She is quite capable of hurling it at them in a moment of wrath. Don’t furnish her with ammunition. She is a handful, all by herself.”
Drawing on her fur coat, for the evening was snappy with frost, Marjorie went bareheaded out of the Hall and across the campus, diagonally to the nearest mail-box. About to cross the main drive on the return to the house, she stood aside for a passing car. The glare of an arc light over the drive picked out plainly the faces of the two occupants of the car. They did not note her, she being in the shadow.
“Oh-h!” a soft little breath of surprise escaped her. She remained in the shadow watching the car. It stopped in front of Wayland Hall. One of the occupants, Elizabeth Walbert, left the car and hurried up the steps of the Hall. The car turned in the open space before the house, darted away instantly. It shot past Marjorie at high speed. This time she hardly glimpsed the driver’s face. She had already recognized it, however, as that of Leslie Cairns. She had not withdrawn into the shadow for the purpose of spying upon the two girls. She had merely preferred not to encounter them. She resolved to tell no one of having seen Leslie on the campus. She could not refrain from wondering at the ex-senior’s temerity, in thus invading a territory now forbidden to her.
CHAPTER XVII—THE CULMINATION OF A ROMANCE
“It’s a perfectly sweet dress! Of course it is just a wee, tiny bit better than any other you’ve ever given me, you two old dears!”
Marjorie made her usual loving onslaught upon her smiling general and captain who sat side by side on the living room davenport admiring her. It was the evening of Constance Stevens’ wedding and Marjorie was proudly parading her maid of honor frock before her indulgent parents. She had just come down stairs and was bubbling over with happiness at the beauty of the gown, her flowers, and the prospect in general directly ahead of her.