"I really didn't know how disappointed I was about not going till your mother's note came," she said to Beverly, when breakfast was over, and Mrs. Randolph had gone to put on her hat. "I have always longed to see a football game. My father was on the team at Harvard."
"You seemed to take your disappointment rather cheerfully," said Beverly with characteristic bluntness.
Marjorie blushed.
"It was just one of the things that couldn't be helped," she said simply. "My aunt says there are some things every one has to make the best of."
"Your aunt must be a sensible woman," remarked Mrs. Randolph, who had returned just in time to hear Marjorie's last sentence. Thereupon Marjorie launched forth into an account of Aunt Jessie's bravery and cheerfulness, in which both her companions seemed interested.
Marjorie was sure she would never forget the delight of that motor ride to New Haven. It was her first ride in an open touring car, and the bright sunshine, the keen frosty air, and the swift motion, all combined to render the trip a truly enjoyable one. She sat in the tonneau, between Mrs. Randolph and the doctor, and Beverly occupied the front seat with the chauffeur.
"It's the most heavenly motion I ever imagined," murmured Marjorie, as they bowled swiftly out of the park and along the grand boulevard. "I always thought riding was the most delightful thing in the world, but I believe motoring is even better."
The doctor laughed.
"You must be an accomplished horsewoman," he said. "Beverly tells me you have spent a good part of your life on a ranch."
"I rode my first pony before I was five, and helped Father train a colt when I was nine," said Marjorie. "I suppose that is one reason why I love horses so much, and can't bear to see one ill-treated."