Theodora saw nothing, heard nothing but the slap of hands on the ball, the quick breaths that slipped past her cheek. She knew that the score was nine to five now; a little later it was nine to six. She caught the eye of the girl in the toque: she was standing now, her cheeks very red, and the little lace handkerchief was torn to shreds in her hands.
"Does she really care?" thought Theodora, as she jumped and twisted and doubled. Back on the senior side sat Susan Jackson, her eyes wide, her lips parted; Cornelia Burt was breathing on her hands and chafing them softly. "Nine to seven—play!" called the assistant.
Harriet sat near the fireplace, her bandaged foot on a bench before her, her hands twisting and untwisting in her lap.
Here's to Harriet Foster,
And we're sorry that we lost her,
Drink her down, drink her down, drink her down, down, down!
sang the freshmen. Would Harriet have done better? Would she have—Ah!
"Ten to seven—play!"
And they were so near, too! They were playing well—Grace and Virginia were great—they could have done something if that stupid Home—Oh!
Theodora leaped, missed the ball, but danced up in front of Martha and warded off the girl who slipped in to help her. Martha uttered an impatient exclamation and scowled. The freshmen howled and kicked against the gallery, and as the freshman Home woke out of an apparent lethargy and put the ball in neatly Theodora clapped and cheered with the rest.