“I’ll surely remember what you’ve said about her.” Doris meant what she said. She had been distinctly shocked at both instances which Leslie had cited of Marjorie Dean’s treachery. What she desired most now was that Leslie should drop the discussion of her grievances.
This Leslie was not ready to do. She continued on the depressing topic for several more minutes. Then she began asking Doris questions concerning the subject of Brooke Hamilton’s biography. Doris knew only what she had already imparted to Leslie concerning it.
“None of the students know the details concerning it except Miss—I mean, the Travelers,” she finally said desperately. She stopped short of mentioning Marjorie’s name again. She did not care to start Leslie anew. “I imagine there really isn’t much else to know besides what I’ve already told you.”
“Don’t you ever believe it,” was the skeptical retort. “But I don’t blame you, Goldie, for what you don’t know.”
“Thank you.” Doris shrugged satiric gratitude. Glad to turn the conversation into a lighter strain she continued gaily: “We’re soon going to have a general lark on the campus. The whole college crowd is to be in it. It’s to be a ‘Rustic Romp.’ One-half of the girls are to dress up as country maids; the other half as country swains. In order to be sure of an even number of couples each student has to register her choice as maid or swain. If not enough girls register as swains then some of the maids will have to change their minds and do duty as gallants. Miss Evans, a rather nice senior, has charge of the registration. And it’s to be a masquerade!” Doris’s exclamation contained pleased anticipation.
“Wonderful.” Leslie chose to be derisive. Underneath envious interest prompted her to ask; “Whose fond, fertile flight of foolishness was that? Mickie Harper’s or Pudge and Beans?”
“I don’t know whose inspiration it was. Probably the seniors had the most to do with it.” Doris again steered the talk toward peaceful channels.
“Hm-m.” Leslie glanced at Doris, then at the luncheon which the waitress was now placing before them on the table. She gazed abstractedly at the appetizing repast. Her eyes traveled slowly back to Doris. Suddenly she broke into one of her fits of silent, hob-goblin merriment. “I think I’ll attend that hayseed carnival myself,” she announced in a tone of defiant boldness.