“Hot,” said Belle, “is it? Perhaps I am hot; I don’t know. Does heat matter? that is the question.”
She flung off her hat, and let it tumble on the floor. Her brow was wet with perspiration.
“No physical discomforts seem to matter as far as you are concerned,” said Leslie with a smile.
“I do not feel physical suffering,” said Belle: “that is the truth. My mind is wrapped in meditation and thoughts of the future. I long for this tiresome holiday to be at an end. I have one comfort, however; my money is continuing to heap up. When I finish my collegiate career, I shall have quite enough to open my hostel. I shall call it a hostel for the lovers of pure literature.
I am sure it will do well; it will supply a long-felt need.”
But Leslie was not in the humor to talk about the hostel just then.
“I have a great deal to worry me just now,” continued Belle. “Mother has so little sympathy; I have no consolation but one or two books—the best of friends. By the way, Leslie, you don’t look too bright yourself; your brow has quite a haggard look. I am certain, although you will not acknowledge it, that you are missing St. Wode’s.”
“In many ways I am, dear.”
“Oh, this is delicious,” said Belle. She hopped up from her seat, and drew a chair close to Leslie.
“Does your mother object to your studies?” she said. “Does she——”