“Oh, I suppose so. That’s how great charitable reputations are worked up. And they’ll look at me through lorgnettes, and say to themselves, ‘Dear me, and to think we were at school with that old thing! Hasn’t she grown into a perfect haybag?’ Because, being purse-proud and ignorant, they won’t know an artistic figure when they see it. And they’ll ask me what has become of that queer, gawky Nita Anderson, and I shall reply, ‘Oh, quite dropped out of decent society—she’s taken to golf!’ ”
The soft drawl ceased abruptly, as the outraged Nita picked up the artistic one in her muscular arms and deposited her on the sofa, where she sat upon her, to keep her quiet, she explained. When the tumult caused by this interlude had subsided—it had managed to include most of those present—the twins were so weak with laughter that their troubles seemed faint and far-off things. The cheery chaff went on—they were somehow the centre of it, and they knew that every one else was trying to “buck them up.” It was only decent to respond; “blues” were for private consumption only, and must not be allowed to darken end-of-term gatherings. So the twins became as cheerful as anyone, and put away resolutely the spectres of drought and unpaid bills and household worries. Later on, these would have their place; to-night was to-night, and every one must be merry.
Bed-time came, and, one by one, the girls drifted away until there were only Helen and Ellen Webster left. The twins were perched, cross-legged, on each end of the Chesterfield couch, and Ellen looked at them, her queer, elfin face, with its sharp features, settling into its accustomed gravity.
“Well, I’ve ragged all the evening, but I’m going to be serious for two minutes,” she said: “just long enough to say I’m horribly sorry you’re going.”
“Thanks,” the twins said, nodding at her. “But we’d never have made decent prefects, Ellen—truly.”
“I’ve my own opinion about that. But apart from being prefects, I’m going to miss you. You don’t seem to consider I’ve a thought apart from prefecting!”
“Well, we’re going to miss you. Oh, my goodness, how we’re going to miss every one!” Jo breathed. “Even the irregular verbs and the crocodile. We’ve had an awful lot of fun this year!”
“I don’t look forward to nearly so much as I’ve had,” sighed Ellen. “You two cheerful lunatics will be gone, for one thing: so will Helen, whom I mustn’t call a lunatic, because she’s Captain, but who is very cheerful. And nearly all the old set will be gone, and I’ll be left like a pelican on the housetop. But it’s worst of all for you, because you’ll have worries as well. I just wanted you to know I was sorry.”
“You’ve all been jolly good,” Jean said. “I don’t suppose we realize the worries yet. Of course we’ve never been rich, but we’ve had all we wanted. That’s one way of being rich, I expect. But it’s going to be horrid to think Father and Mother have worries we can’t help.”
“But you are going to help. Look at all you’ll be saving them.”