Robbie sighed again and looked at the clock. “It will be half past four in two hours,” she volunteered.
Berta pushed back her hair with an impatient gesture. “Robbie Belle, the longer it rains, the more loquacious you become. Do go and write a note to Lila, or darn stockings or something. I have a committee meeting at three, and you bother me dreadfully, with your chatter. Do run along, there’s a dear.”
Robbie rose and wandered away forlornly. Even though she did not feel like studying, she half wished that she had not finished the preparation of Monday’s lessons. College on a rainy Saturday afternoon, when all your friends are writing poems, is not a very cheerful place.
At half-past four Berta was in the midst of a fiery argument about the program for the Junior Party to the seniors. The dispute concerned some fine point of æsthetic taste in the choice of paper and position of monogram. The stroke of the half hour reminded her of the engagement with Bea, but she lightly pushed aside the thought as of no consequence in comparison with the present emergency.
It was ten minutes to five when she seized an umbrella and scurried across the campus to the gymnasium. There in the dusk of fading light from the clouded sky outside she beheld the swimming-tank deserted, its surface still glinting in soft ripples as if from recent plunging.
At sound of a rustle in one of the dressing-rooms, Berta called Bea’s name. It was Robbie’s voice that answered her.
“Bea’s gone out walking.”
“Out walking?” echoed Berta scandalized and incredulous.
“Yes, she was here in the water at half-past four, just as she had said she would be. She waited for you, and tried to swim at the end of a curtain pole. I held it steady for her, but when she was the teacher, she let me duck under. And we weren’t sure about the stroke anyhow. And we kept getting colder and colder.”
“Oh!” the voice sounded as if suddenly enlightened. “At what time did you go in?”