“Phil looks more like a wandering musician than ever in that Tam,” was Marjorie’s admiring opinion. The individuality of Phyllis’ clothes and the careless, artistic grace with which the tall, supple girl wore them were a joy to Marjorie.
Down the stairs and out of the house trooped the five friends, bent on making as good time to Wayland Hall as they could. Robin, Phil and Marjorie were anxious to have a talk before dinner about the program for the coming revue and their entertainment plans for Thanksgiving. Muriel had decided to go to town with Jerry and Leila in the car to help buy the eats for the spread. Barbara was eager to see Lucy Warner and glean from her certain biological pointers of which she stood in need. The group sped across the campus, reaching the Hall at just five o’clock.
“No mail for Muriel. What’s the matter with the population of Sanford that I don’t get any letters?” Muriel demanded severely as she turned away disappointedly from the Hall bulletin board.
“I had no idea of your vast importance in Sanford,” giggled Barbara. “You talk as though you were the mayor of the town.”
“Not yet,” grinned Muriel. “I may be the mayoress of Sanford some day—say in about a hundred years from now.” She duplicated Barbara’s giggle. “Marjorie’s the scintillating social star of Sanford.”
Marjorie said not a word as she picked several letters from the bulletin board. Her eyes were glowing like stars at the harvest of mail. There was a letter from General; another from Captain; a third in Mary Raymond’s neat vertical script, had come from far-off Colorado. There was a fourth from Constance Armitage. Fifth and last was a letter in the sprawling childish writing of Charlie Stevens. She and Charlie, the latter now grown into a tall sturdy youngster of thirteen, were regular and enthusiastic correspondents.
In the rack above her own mail she caught sight of two letters for Jerry. One of them was in Helen Trent’s familiar hand. The other—A swift blush overspread Marjorie’s cheeks as she took the two letters from the board and placed them with her own. She knew only too well whose hand had dashed the address across the envelope.
Immersed as she had been in college matters she had given her old pal, Hal Macy, scant thought since her return to Hamilton campus. Sight of his letter to Jerry gave her pause; reminded her of something which intruded itself upon her not quite agreeably. Hal had not answered the latest letter she had written him. It had really been a long while since she had heard from him.