Frowning, Leslie shot a second glance at Doris. Her shrewd dark eyes read mainly in Doris’s lovely blonde profile supreme discontent at not being able to have her own way.
“You didn’t break into anything,” Leslie gruffly assured. “That is what you and Nat Weyman seem possessed to try to do, though.”
“What do you mean, Leslie?” Doris turned offended eyes for a brief second on her companion.
“I mean you two seem determined to wreck the promising business career of Leslie Adoré Cairns,” Leslie retorted with grim humor.
“Adoré!” Doris exclaimed irrelevantly. “What a darling name!”
“Just suits me, doesn’t it?” Leslie threw back her head and indulged in her silent hob-goblin laugh.
“No, it doesn’t,” Doris said with amazing candor; “but it might.”
“What?” For once Leslie’s pet monosyllable burst involuntarily from her lips.
“I said it might suit you,” calmly returned Doris, “if you would try to make it suit you. You’ve loads of personality, Leslie; the kind that would make people like you a lot if you cared to have them like you.”
“I’m not keen on having people like me, even if I do happen to have a foolish middle name.” From interest Leslie’s tone had quickly changed to one of mild derision. “I mean I wouldn’t lift my finger in order to stand well with a gang of girls. That’s the way Bean made herself popular on the campus; pretending to be so kind and helpful; setting up goody-goody standards and poking her inquisitive nose into a lot of things that didn’t concern her. Then there was the Beauty contest. She won that. It gave her a strong pull with the upper class girls. All except the Sans.” Leslie’s displeasure against Marjorie rose with the recital of past troubles. “They knew the judges at the contest hadn’t played fairly. Nat Weyman should have won the contest. Wish you’d been a freshie that year. Bean wouldn’t have had a look-in.”