"Has the mail been around yet?" called Priscilla to a girl at the other
end of the corridor.
"Don't believe so. It hasn't been in our room."
"There she comes now!" and Priscilla swooped down upon the mail-girl.
"Got anything for 399?"
"Do you want Miss Wyatt's mail too?"
"Yes; I'll take everything. What a lot! Is that all for us?" And
Priscilla walked down the corridor swinging her note-book by its
shoe-string, and opening envelops as she went. She was presently joined
by Georgie Merriles, likewise swinging a note-book by a shoe-string.
"Hello, Pris; going to English? Want me to help carry your mail?"
"Thank you," said Priscilla; "you may keep the most of it. Now, that,"
she added, holding out a blue envelop, "is an advertisement for cold
cream which no lady should be without; and that"--holding out a yellow
envelop--"is an advertisement for beef extract which no brain-worker
should be without; and that"--holding out a white envelop--"is the worst
of all, because it looks like a legitimate letter, and it's nothing but
a 'Dear Madam' thing, telling me my tailor has moved from Twenty-second
to Forty-third Street, and hopes I'll continue to favor him with my
patronage.
"And here," she went on, turning to her room-mate's correspondence, "is
a cold-cream and a beef-extract letter for Patty, and one from Yale;
that's probably Raoul explaining why he couldn't come to the Prom. It
won't do any good, though. No mortal man can ever make her believe he
didn't have his collar-bone broken on purpose. And I don't know whom
that's from," Priscilla continued, examining the last letter. "It's
marked 'Hotel A----, New York.' Never heard of it, did you? Never saw
the writing before, either."