Then other voices joined in—Mary Stewart, Jennie Wren and Martha Schaeffer, a rich girl from Chicago, who roomed in that house.
They gobbled down the first course as people usually dispatch relishes, and as Caroline removed the dishes, Molly appeared with the soup. None of the girls recognized her, of course, which was perfectly good college etiquette, although Mary Stewart smiled when Molly placed her cup of soup and whispered:
“Good work.”
Molly gave her a grateful look, and Professor Edwin Green, looking up, caught a glimpse of Molly’s flushed face, and smiled, too.
“I say, Ju-ju, who’s your head waitress?” Molly could not help overhearing Richard Blount ask when she had left the room.
“Oh, just a little Southern girl named Smith, or something,” answered Judith carelessly.
“That young lady,” said Professor Edwin Green, “is Miss Molly Brown, of Kentucky.”
The young freshman’s face was crimson when she brought in the steak and placed it in front of Mr. Blount.
Then she took her stand correctly behind his chair, with a plate in her hand, waiting for him to carve.
Sometimes two members of the same family are so unlike that it is almost impossible to believe that blood from the same stock runs in their veins. So it was with Richard Blount and his sister, Judith. She was tall and dark and arrogant, and he was short and blond and full of good-humored gayety. He rallied all the girls at the table. He teased his Cousin Edwin. He teased his sister, and then he ended by highly praising the food, looking all the time from one corner of his mild blue eyes at Molly’s flushed face.