It lacked but a few minutes of eleven o'clock when the serenading party
said goodnight to Signor Baretti and trooped off toward the campus. The
usually taciturn Italian had surprised and touched them by the impulsive
story of his most tragic hour. He had afterward played host to his
light-hearted guests with the true grace of the Latin. No one came to
the inn for cheer after they entered in that evening, so they had the
place quite to themselves. After a feast of the coveted peach ice cream
and cakes, the obliging orchestra tuned up again at Giuseppe's earnest
request. Robin sang Shubert's "Serenade" and "Appear Love at Thy
Window." Phyllis played Raff's "Cavatina" and one of Brahm's "Hungarian
Dances." Blanche Scott sang "Asleep in the Deep," simply to prove she
had a masculine voice when she chose to use it.
"We'll come and make music for you again sometime," promised
kind-hearted Phyllis as they left their beaming host.
"I thank you. An' you forget you say you come an' play, I tell you 'bout
it sometime you come here to eat," he warned the party as they were
leaving.
"Talk about truth being stranger than fiction, what do you think of
Giuseppe's story?" Jerry exclaimed as soon as they were well away from
the inn. "Imagine how one would feel to meet one's long-lost brother
just as one was getting ready to commit suicide!"
"One half of the world doesn't know how the other half lives," Ronny
said with a shake of her fair head.
"To see Giuseppe today, successful and well-to-do, one finds it hard to
visualize him as the poor, starved, despondent Italian boy who cried his
heart out on the doorstep." Vera's tones vibrated with sympathy. The
Italian's story had impressed her deeply.
The girls discussed it soberly as they wended a leisurely way across the
campus. Even care-free Muriel, who seldom liked to take life seriously,
remarked with becoming earnestness that it was such stories which made
one realize one's own benefits.
"Be on hand tomorrow night at eight-thirty sharp," was Phyllis's parting
injunction to the Wayland Hall girls as the Silvertonites left them to
go on to their own house. "We have three fair ladies to sing to and we
don't want to slight any of them."
"I think we ought to get up some entertainments of our own this year. I
never stopped to realize before how few clubs and college societies
Hamilton has. There's only the 'Silver Pen',--one has to have high
literary ability to make that,--the 'Twelfth Night Club' and the
'Fortnightly Debating Society.' We haven't a single sorority," Vera
declared with regret.
"Miss Remson told me once of a sorority that Hamilton used to have
called the 'Round Table.' It flourished for many years. Then all of a
sudden she heard no more of it. She said Hamilton was very different
even ten years ago from now. There was little automobiling and more
sociability among the campus houses. There were house plays going on
every week and different kinds of entertainments in which almost
everyone joined."
"That's the way college ought to be," commended Vera. "Even if Hamilton
hasn't yet won back to those palmy days, we had more fellowship here
last year than the year before. Why, during Leila's and my freshman year
here we were seldom invited anywhere. We hardly knew Helen Trent until
late in the year. Nella and Selma, Martha Merrick and Rosalind Black
were our only friends."
"And now we are to lose Selma." Leila heaved an audible sigh. She had
already informed the girls of Selma's approaching marriage to a young
naval officer.
"Did Selma know last year she was not going to finish college?" asked
Muriel. "If I had gone through three years of my college course I
wouldn't give up the last and most important year just to be married."
"That is because you know nothing about love," teased Ronny.
"Do you?" challenged Muriel.
"I do not. I have a good deal more sentiment than you have though,"
retorted Ronny. "I can appreciate Selma's sacrifice at the shrine of
love."
"So could I if I knew more about it," Muriel flung back.
"Precisely what I said to you. So glad you agree with me," chuckled
Ronny.
"I don't agree with you at all. I meant if I knew more about what you
were pleased to call 'Selma's sacrifice,' not _love_." Muriel's emphasis
of the last word proclaimed her disdain of the tender passion.
"Hear the geese converse," commented Leila. "Let me tell you both that
Selma had to lose either college or her fiance for two years. He was
ordered to the Philippines to take charge of a naval station on one of
the islands. They were to have been married anyway as soon as she was
graduated from Hamilton. As it was she chose to go with him. So Selma
gained a husband and lost her seniorship and we lost Selma. I shall miss
her, for a finer girl never lived."
"Nella will miss her most of all," Vera said quickly. "We must try to
make it up to Nella by taking her around with us a lot."
They had by this time reached the Hall. Girl-like they lingered on the
steps, enjoying the light night breeze that had sprung up in the last
hour. Marjorie's old friend, the chimes, had rung out the stroke of
eleven before they reached the Hall. College having not yet opened
officially, they claimed the privilege of keeping a little later hours.
As they loitered outside, conversing in low tones, the front door opened
and a girl stepped out on the veranda. She uttered a faint sound of
surprise at sight of the group of girls. She made a half movement as
though to retreat into the house. Then, her face turned away from them,
she hurried across the veranda and down the steps.
Though the veranda light was not switched on, the girls had seen her
face plainly. To four of them she was known.
"Who was _she_ and what ailed her?" was Muriel's light question. "She
acted as though she were afraid we might eat her up."
"That was Miss Sayres, President Matthews' private secretary," answered
Leila in a peculiar tone. "As to what ailed her, she did not expect to
see us and she was not pleased. We have an old Irish proverb: 'When a
man runs from you be sure his feet are at odds with his conscience.'"