“Want to go for a ride with me?” Leslie invited as the three went upstairs, bound for their rooms.
“We can’t. We’ve been shamefully lazy since we came to the Hall. Neither of us are more than half unpacked. We made each other a solemn promise to do the job up brown before going bye-bye tonight,” Vera said with a sigh.
“And we are persons of our word. You know just how it will be if we keep putting off unpacking. We shall be flitting gaily about, here, and there, with our friends descending hungrily upon us, and our poor possessions still in a fine muddle. ‘Take time by the forelock.’ So we shall firmly grab the forelock, and give it a strenuous jerk,” Leila finished with energy.
“Go to it! Attaboy! Maybe I’ll see you later; maybe not.” Leslie left the industry-declared pair at the door of her room. The door closed, she went over to a wicker chair beside one of the windows, meditatively seating herself. She was wishing that the inquisitive little freshie she had brought to the Hall from the station had not proposed herself as a roommate to her.
“Nope I can’t see it that way,” she presently said aloud. “There’s no reason why I should. Miss Remson would back me up in that.” Her eyes roved about the luxuriously-appointed room, a gleam of pride in their dark depths. “Some room,” she nodded, with a sigh of satisfaction. She smiled a little, anticipating Marjorie’s friendly delight at the beauty of her “den.” “I’ll have a ‘den-warming’ next week for the Travelers,” she murmured.
Thought of Marjorie, and her smile vanished gradually, leaving her rugged features darkly overcast. Marjorie, to whom she owed the change of heart which had brought her nothing except happiness, Leslie regarded as a guiding spirit. Given the same circumstances, it had now occurred to her to wonder what Marjorie would do. She thereupon began arguing with herself that even Marjorie might easily feel as she felt about giving up the comfortable privacy of a “single” to a stranger, merely because the stranger in question had set her mind upon living at Wayland Hall. Yet, in her heart, she misdoubted the strength of her own argument.
“‘Remember the stranger within the gates,’” was the final pertinent fling of her mind at her as she left her room and went soberly down the stairs. She was tempted to stop in Miss Remson’s office, there to inquire what had become of her freshman “catch.” She went on out of the house instead, deciding to seek the manager on her return from the ride.
Leslie walked past the long line of cars, temporarily deserted by their owners, glad that she had parked her own roadster sufficiently near enough to the gates so as to escape the string of automobiles which extended within a few yards of it. Her knowledge of motor cars informed her that the cars she had passed were the latest models of the most expensive types. Her own roadster, exceptionally trim-lined, was no better than those of the freshman twelve.
She was soon speeding along Hamilton Pike, the fresh-blowing evening breeze in her face, the swift rush of the fleeing car filling her with contented exhilaration. Speeding through Hamilton Estates she glimpsed the lights of Travelers’ Rest and Hamilton Arms, happy in the knowledge that she would be welcome at either of the stately homes, should she choose to stop. Carden Hedge, back among the great trees, shadowed of outline in the growing dusk, would soon be twinkling with lights. Home was not far off. Her heart beat faster at the thought. Once she had hated the very name of Hamilton. Now it was everything to her. Lost in blissful musing, the half sympathetic concern she had felt for the odd little freshman faded temporarily from her mind. Nor did it return until she had driven past the college gates on her way to the garage.
At the garage she found the proprietor, a short, stout man with a troubled expression, grumbling roundly at the strange ways of “them young ladies from the college.”