“Thank you, my dear. I shan’t run out to meet calamity. Speaking of democracy reminds me of Marjorie. When did you last see her? I have been looking for a visit from her. I was so sorry I couldn’t attend Jerry’s wedding. I’ve not seen Marjorie since her return from Sanford. Tell her, when you see her again, to come over soon.”
“I’m going over to Travelers’ Rest tomorrow. I’ll bring her back with me, if I can. She and Miss Susanna have begun re-arranging Mr. Brooke’s library, and they are not yet through with the job. Good night, Miss Remson.” Leslie was now at the door.
“Good night, Leslie.” The manager nodded affectionately to the girl who had once been a sore trial to her.
Leslie went slowly up the stairs and down the hall toward her room, overtaken by a sudden sense of loneliness. She missed Doris Monroe. “Goldie,” as Leslie liked to call Doris, was always a good pal. Too, she missed the merry camaraderie of the Sanford group of girls now scattered to the four winds. Of them, Marjorie and Lucy still remained to her, but Lucy was staying with Lillian Wenderblatt for a few days before the opening of college, and Marjorie was still deep in love’s young dream. Vera and Leila had turned industrious for the evening. She wouldn’t “butt in” upon them. Leslie sighed faintly as her hand closed on the knob of her door. Remembering the letter she must write, she brightened, shook off her wistful mood and opened her door with an energetic swing.
She was about to close it when the sound of a sob broke upon the dark stillness of her room. Slightly startled, her fingers found the light switch at the left of the door casing. Came a flood of light—
“What?” Leslie’s favorite ejaculation fell from her lips. Inquiry, not displeasure, was in the glance she turned upon the small weeping figure, huddled on the floor beside one of the windows. Advancing toward it she said not ungently, “What’s the trouble?”
CHAPTER XII
A LITTLE SOCIAL CLIMBER
The black curly head of the sobbing intruder slowly raised itself from her arms at Leslie’s inquiry. The expression of the round, tear-stained face she turned toward Leslie was a mixture of shame, defiance and appeal.
“I know I’ve no business to be here,” she quavered half apologetically. “I mean like this.” Steadying her voice, she went on with: “I knocked on your door. It was open a little. When I knocked it opened wider. Then I saw there was no one in here. I thought perhaps you’d be back soon, and wouldn’t mind if I waited for you. I just had to see you I feel so-o ba-d-d.” The words ended in a mournful child-like wail. The girl’s black curly head went down again upon her arms.