“He’s growing terribly spoiled,” apologized Constance. “My aunt adores him and thinks he must have everything he asks for. He’s a good little boy, though, in spite of all the petting he gets.”
“He’s a perfect darling,” dimpled Susan Atwell. “He says such quaint, funny things. Has he ever tried to run away since the night of the operetta?”
“No.” Constance made brief reply. Her gaze wandered to Mary Raymond, who was talking busily with Harriet Delaney and Esther Lind. The vision of a fair-haired, blue-eyed girl, leading a small runaway up to the stage door of the theatre rose before her. Next to Marjorie Dean, Mary ranked second in her heart. Constance felt suddenly very humble in the possession of two such wonderful friends. Life had been kinder to her than she deserved was her grateful thought.
Susan eyed her curiously. Although she was very fond of Constance, she did not in the least understand her. Now she said rather timidly, “I hope you didn’t mind because I spoke of the operetta and Charlie’s running away, Connie?”
Constance promptly came out of her day-dream. “You brought it all back to me,” she smiled. “I was just wondering what I’d ever done to deserve such friends as I’ve made here in Sanford. I can’t bear to think that Mary won’t be with us this year.”
Before Susan could reply, Jerry interrupted them with, “Come along, girls. The sooner we get settled the longer we’ll have to talk.”
It was a merry, light-hearted band that strolled out of the house and across the lawn to the honeysuckle-draped pagoda, situated at the far end of the velvety stretch of green. Mary and Marjorie brought up the rear, their arms piled high with bright-hued cushions, and the guests soon disposed themselves on the bench built circular fashion around the pagoda, or sought the comfort of the several wicker chairs.
Brought together again after more than two months’ separation, a busy wagging of tongues was in order, mingled with the ready laughter that high-spirited youth alone knows. Everyone had something interesting to tell of her vacation and rejoiced accordingly in the telling. Father Time flew in his fleetest fashion, but no one of the group paid the slightest attention to the fact. From vacation, the conversation gradually drifted into school channels and a lively discussion of junior plans ensued.
“By the way, girls,” remarked Jerry Macy with the careless assumption of casualty which was her favorite method of procedure when about to retail some amazing bit of news. “Did you know that Miss Archer almost decided to resign her position at Sanford High for one in Chicago?”
“Of course we didn’t know it, and you know we didn’t,” laughed Susan Atwell. “Whenever Jerry begins with ‘By the way,’ and tries to look innocent you may know she has something startling to offer.”