“Chicken a la king,” Doris began confidently, without looking at the menu, “and——” she glanced at Leslie. Leslie had taken a small white kid note book from a strap purse she carried and was industriously making notes in it with a tiny white pencil.
“Why don’t you duplicate my order?” Leslie was not too busy to miss Doris’ hesitating tone. “I know what’s good to eat here.”
“I will, thank you.” Again Doris found herself answering Leslie with almost meek politeness.
“That’s good.” Leslie closed the little book, put it and the pencil in the purse and straightened her shoulders in a faithful imitation of her father. Believing that Doris would eventually prove useful to her she cleverly resolved to treat “Blondie” as her father might have treated a business subordinate who was his social equal.
While waiting for the luncheon to be served the two reached slightly better terms. Doris told Leslie her name, her father’s name and a little concerning her life abroad. Leslie introduced herself by name, but gave Doris no other information save that her father was a millionaire financier. Leslie was deliberating as to how much of her Hamilton history she should tell Doris. If she expected to become friendly with “Blondie” she must acquaint her with a glossed over account of her expulsion from college. Sooner or later Doris would be sure to hear an echo of it on the campus.
“How do you like Wayland Hall?” Leslie inquired, when, in the course of conversation Doris remarked her residence there.
“I don’t like it at all,” Doris shrugged her dislike.
“It’s the best house on the campus. I lived there for almost four years. I ought to know.” Leslie came out boldly with the information.
“You did!” Doris laid down her salad fork and surveyed Leslie with genuine astonishment. “Then you were graduated from Hamilton College. Were you graduated last June?”
“No,” Leslie gained dramatic effect by a slow, pensive shake of the head. Her loose-lipped mouth tightened into pretended regret. “I was preparing to be graduated a year ago last June. A senior, supposed to be my dear friend, started a hazing story about me and sixteen other girls. We were all members of a very exclusive club. We asked the girl who made the trouble for us to resign from our club. She had circulated untrue stories about us on the campus. For pure spite she wrote a letter to Prexy Matthews, claiming that we hazed a junior on a certain winter night.