“Which goes to show what a punk judge of character you are,” was the dry retort. “Never mind. Let it go at that. No use in raving at me, Steve. The person who told me is a friend of Miss Ferguson’s, but she has a wholesome respect for Miss Cairns, and her P. G. supporters. That’s why I couldn’t glean much from her. Better success next time,” Laura predicted, indolently confident.
“You’re altogether too mysterious. You know more about—well, about this story than you’ve told me,” Stephanie coldly accused.
“No; I don’t; and that’s flat. When I do find out more, you’ll be the first to hear it.” There was finality in the lightly-given promise.
Stephanie frowningly accepted defeat. She could not well afford to quarrel with Laura. Once thoroughly angered, Laura was apt to turn stonily silent, refusing to speak to her for weeks. “What shall you wear to the freshman dance?” She changed the dangerous subject half sulkily.
“Haven’t decided yet.” A glint of amusement appeared, and as quickly disappeared in Laura’s eyes. “The pale blue georgette with the silver lace tunic, maybe. It’s my prettiest frock.”
“I shall wear my white satin dress; the imported one, you know. It’s a stunning thing; too stunning to be wasted on a girl hop, but first impressions count. There’s to be a beauty contest. How I’d love to win it. Miss Ferguson says there are to be no juniors or seniors at the frolic this year. The sophomore class is a little larger than the freshie class, so the juniors and seniors won’t be needed as escorts. I haven’t seen any startling beauties yet among either the freshies or the sophs. Have you?” Stephanie’s question betrayed ill-suppressed eagerness.
“I’ve seen three or four beautiful girls on the campus. They may be upper class girls, for all I know. Of course, Miss Monroe, here at the Hall, is a beauty, but she’s a senior, and that lets her out. I heard she’d won it two successive years. I heard, too, that this Marjorie Dean, I can’t remember her married name, had won it, twice; that she was prettier than Miss Monroe, though of a different type of beauty.”
“Do you think there is a chance that I might win the contest?” Stephanie could not resist asking the question.
“Yes; I think there is,” Laura returned speculatively, “particularly if you should wear the white satin dress. You are beautiful, Steve, but—” Laura paused, shaking her head.
“But what?” Stephanie demanded, half affronted.