“Jerry never gives me credit for anything,” laughed Hal. “That is, in public. Later, when Laurie’s gone home, she’ll tell me how much better I can fence than Laurie.”
“Don’t you believe him. He’s trying to tease me, but I know him too well to pay any attention to what he says.” Jerry’s fond grin bespoke her affection for the brother she invariably grumbled about. At heart she was devoted to him. In public she derived peculiar pleasure from sparring with him.
The trio of girls had advanced upon the library, there to hold a business session. But the keynote of the next half hour was sociability. It was Constance who first started the ball rolling. Ensconced beside Laurie on the deep window seat, she told the young composer that Jerry had a wonderful scheme to unfold.
“Then let’s get together and listen to it,” he said warmly. Three minutes afterward he had marshalled the others to the window seat. “Everybody sit down but Jerry. She has the floor. Go ahead, Jerry. Tell us what you’d like us to do.” He reseated himself by Constance. Laurie never neglected an opportunity to be near to the girl of his boyish heart.
Posting herself before her hearers with an exaggerated air of importance, Jerry made a derisive mouth at Danny Seabrooke, who was leaning forward with an appearance of profound interest, which threatened to land him sprawling on the floor. “I’m not used to addressing such a large audience,” she chuckled. “Ahem! Wow!” Having delivered herself of these enlightening remarks she straightened her face and set forth her plan with her usual brusque energy. She ended with: “You three boys have got to help. No backing out.”
“Surely we’ll help,” promised Laurie at once. “It’s a good idea, Jerry. I can have things going inside of a week. That is, if my leading lady doesn’t develop a temperament. These opera singers are very temperamental, you know.” His blue eyes rested smilingly on Constance.
“I’m not an opera singer,” she retorted. “I’m only a would-be one. Would-be’s are very humble persons. They know they must behave well. You had better interview your tenor lead. Tenors are supposed to be terribly irresponsible.”
Amid an exchange of equally harmless badinage, the six willing workers discussed the plan at length. So much excited discussion was provocative of hunger. No one, except Hal, said so, yet when Jerry disappeared to return trundling a tea wagon, filled with delectable provender, she was hailed with acclamation.
“What splendid times we always have together,” was Marjorie’s enthusiastic opinion, when seated beside Hal in his own pet car she was being conveyed home. Snatches of mirthful conversation issuing from the tonneau where the rest of the sextette, Jerry included, were enjoying themselves hugely, seemed direct corroboration of her words. Invited to “come along,” Jerry had needed no second urging.
“That’s your fault,” Hal made gallant response. “You are the magnet that draws us all together. Before you and Jerry were friends I never realized what a fine sister I had. If you hadn’t been so nice to Constance, she and Laurie might never have come to know each other so well. Then there’s Dan. He always used to run away from girls. He got over his first fright at that little party you gave the first year you came to Sanford. You’re a magician, Marjorie, and you’re making a pretty nice history for yourself among your friends. I hope always to be among the best of them.” Hal was very earnest in his boyish praise.