“You are still my honored confidant. I never considered you an idiot, and I loathe Political Science. I wasn’t whispering outside the door, though. I was talking to l’enfant angelique, suppose we call her. She came to tell me that the other girls on the team are minding their own affairs as they should.”
“I’m amazed,” Jerry retorted genially. “Gloomy Gus has certainly arrived. She was a whirlwind today. Without her the freshies would not have whipped the sophs. She’s agile, and has a good eye for the basket. She landed some beauties this afternoon.”
Marjorie seconded this opinion. After a further remark or two, Jerry turned her attention to the despised intricacies of Political Science. Marjorie made a valiant effort to study, but her mind roved to her personal affairs. She finally took paper and pencil and began to jot down the various things she must do before going home for the Christmas holidays.
Paramount among them was a visit she must make to Miss Susanna. The nine girls whom the old lady had taken into her liking had already ordered their tribute of flowers to be sent to her on the day before Christmas. Marjorie always felt rather timid about going to Hamilton Arms without a special invitation. She had done so once or twice that fall, as Miss Susanna had invited her to come to the Arms at any time. She finally decided to write her eccentric friend a note, asking permission to spend a part of the next Sunday afternoon with her. That would really be the only free time she would have before Christmas. College would close the following Thursday for the Yuletide holidays.
In the light of after events Marjorie looked back on that particular Sunday afternoon as having been, the most perfect visit she had ever made Miss Susanna. The old lady unbent conversationally to a marked degree. She related incidents concerning her life at Hamilton Arms, and also that of her distinguished uncle, Brooke Hamilton, which, ordinarily, would have remained obstinately locked behind her stubborn lips.
Listening to Marjorie’s account of the recent failure of the Nineteen Travelers to secure the site for the proposed dormitory, Miss Susanna waxed quite indignant over the manner in which the loss had been effected.
“Too bad that man Cutler didn’t have John Saxe’s address,” she said tersely. “I know John very well. I remember him as a youngster in kilts. I have been told that Cutler is an honorable gentleman. That’s saying a good deal for a real estate agent in these days of trickery.”
“He spoke of that piece of ground beyond those two blocks of houses which belongs to the Carden estate. He said the Cardens might decide to sell it some day.” Marjorie spoke with the unfailing optimism of youth.
“Not to anyone connected with Hamilton College.” Miss Susanna’s face had set harshly at mention of the name Carden. “Alec Carden was the man I had trouble with that wound up my interest in Hamilton College. He is dead now. He had two sons, both married and the heads of families. One of them lives at Carden Hedge, off and on. The other is a financier in New York, I believe. They were always a hard, tricky, dishonorable set. But enough of them. Cutler didn’t say who owned that block of houses below the one you lost, did he?”
“Why, no,” Marjorie replied after brief reflection. “I can’t recall that he said more than that they were not for sale.”