"I'll never again say that the literary instinct is a burden and a reproach, Ju," said Patricia, with her eyes dancing and her head high. "Your thirst for 'plots' has proved too serviceable for me ever to point the finger of scorn in its direction."
It was a brisk, sunny day, and they were waiting for Elinor on the steps of the Academy. Judith was looking very happy, and Patricia, while she had a perturbed air, was no less triumphant in her manner.
"I wonder what keeps Elinor? She's awfully late," complained Judith, shifting on one foot. "Let's go in and have lunch without her."
Patricia shook her head decisively.
"Not much. You'll wait here in solitude till she comes. I'm not going to have you spout it out before any old person, and get us into hot water, perhaps. Here's Elinor now. Come on, Norn, we're about dead, standing on these flinty-hearted steps. Got the sandwiches you promised?"
Elinor showed a neat parcel tucked under her muff-arm. "Chicken and lettuce," she said delectably. "White grapes for dessert. Have you seen Margaret Howes and Griffin?"
Patricia nodded as she held the door wide for Elinor. "Griffin said she'd be ready for us, and Margaret Howes is coming straight down from composition class."
Elinor glanced at them as she went in. "You two look remarkably hilarious," she said casually. "Is it the spring in the air or the prospect of a festive lunch that so illuminates you?"
"Both and more too," laughed Patricia. "We've got a surprise for you, Norn, but we won't tell till we've had lunch; will we, Ju?"
"Not till the very last crumb is done for," declared Judith, emphatically, putting down her parcels on the dressing-room couch. "You may not like it very much, Elinor——"