Now wholly engaged in what promised to completely outdo “The Knight of the Northern Sun,” Leila paid little attention to anything else. As she worked steadily and patiently toward perfecting the various actors in the difficult Celtic characters they were to represent she did not dream that she had already been selected as an object for honor.
Leslie Cairns had determined that Leila should receive her gift, and her father’s, of a theatre on the last day of chapel. Leslie had always remembered and been impressed by the various honor citations which she had witnessed when a student at Hamilton. She believed that Leila would prefer to be honored in the company of her fellow students in chapel than at the regular Commencement exercises. She argued that the gift she wished to offer Leila was germane to the traditional side of the college.
While Leila was carrying on a lively correspondence with Hal, Marjorie was wondering now and then why she had not heard from him. With Hal so much in her mind of late it was not strange that she should notice his delay in writing. She had written him over a month ago. He had not written to Jerry, either. Perhaps he had been away, or had been ill. No; if he had been ill Jerry’s mother would have mentioned it to Jerry in a letter. Marjorie realized, all of a sudden, that she had grown quite concerned in the matter. She chided herself for being silly, and dismissed Hal from her thoughts—until he happened to walk into them again.
“Say, have you heard from old Hal lately?” Jerry asked her on the evening of Leila’s play, as the two girls were dressing for the event. “Because I’m going to wear my turquoise necklace I happened to think of him. He gave it to me, you know.”
“I’ve wondered myself why he hasn’t answered my last letter.” Marjorie stood before the long wall mirror surveying herself with a critical and unenthusiastic eye. She was dressed in the shaded violet frock of Chinese crepe which she had owned for five years and which was still a la mode. She had worn it only on rare occasions. It was still fresh and charming as on the night when she had worn it as a freshman to the Beauty contest. Leila had begged her to wear it “in honor of your Celtic friend and Irish playwright,” she had laughingly stipulated.
“He’s probably away on a business trip for the governor.” Jerry delivered this opinion as she poked her arms into her white fur evening coat. “Don’t forget your violets.” She patted the huge bunch of scented purple beauties at her own corsage.
Marjorie turned from the mirror. She took her own bunch of violets from the water, dried the stems and pinned them on. The faint exquisite perfume of them all but brought tears to her eyes. She thought of Angela, of Brooke Hamilton, of how they had loved violets. And then—back went her mind to the winter day when Hal had stood before the portrait of a girl who wore violets.
“I’m going for a long, long walk tomorrow,” she announced. “My head is full of cobwebs. I shall let the fresh air sweep it clear. I hope there will be a good old high wind blowing. I’ll love to walk out and fight with it.”
“I’ll go with you. Bean. Never believe you can lose me.”
“I look upon you as a permanent fixture,” Marjorie graciously assured.