“Didn’t you know it? Her work has been mainly inconspicuous contributions signed only with initials. Stuff like that counts up amazingly in the long run. She is a better critic though not so original as Miss Brett. For my part I think the editor-in-chief ought to be primarily a critic, but perhaps I am wrong. Anyhow the theory is that the election goes to the best writer. I’m sorry. I half wish Miss Brett would fail to qualify. The editorship means such a heap to Laura.”
“How?”
“Her uncle who pays her expenses here is rather queer—thinks he ought to see more results of her career. He’s disappointed because she doesn’t gather in prizes as she did in the country schools. She may in her senior year, but freshmen don’t have much chance to win anything more than an honorable record. He doesn’t believe in college anyhow and consented to send her under protest. Now he threatens to stop it if she doesn’t do something dazzling this year.”
“Poor infant! What a ridiculous attitude! But since that is the case, why not vote her in? Lay the circumstances before the board, and they’ll elect her.”
“Oh, no, they won’t. The board is altogether too scrupulous and idealistic this season to let personal feelings interfere. You’re rather new to office as yet. Mark my words and trust me: if Miss Brett qualifies, she will be elected. I know—and that’s why I wish she wouldn’t.”
“There come the others. See that pile of manuscript. We’ll be lucky if we get away at midnight. I only hope nobody will ask me to compose a poem to fill out a page; my head feels as if stuffed with sawdust.”
Lucine turned her head slowly to watch the group of girls wander into the office and light the gas amid a flutter of papers and dressing-gowns mixed with sleepy yawns and tired laughter. Then some one shut the door. Lucine was still sitting in the shadowy window-seat, her essay clutched tightly in her hand.
After a minute she rose, walked toward the door, and lifted her arm as if to knock. Then giving herself an impatient shake she swung around and hurried down the corridor as far as the transverse. There she hesitated, halted, half swerved to retrace her steps, stamped one foot down hard, brought up the other beside it, and clenching both fists over the essay fled from the neighborhood.
When she reached her room, she paused to listen. Hearing no sound she slipped inside, threw the essay into a drawer, locked it, and put the key in her pocket. Then after a wistful glance around she stooped to pick up Laura’s white tam from the couch, pressed it against her cheek for a moment, and laid it gently in the empty little chair where Laura had sat while listening to the essay that afternoon.
“Laura,” she whispered, “I can’t spare you, Laura. You shall come back next year, and we shall room together again, you and I.”