AN AFTERNOON CALL
PRISCILLA sat at her little dressing table, studying her reflection in
the mirror with an absorbed intentness which would have impressed nine
observers out of ten as a naïve exhibition of vanity. This verdict,
however, would have been most unfair. Though many people considered
Priscilla a really handsome girl, she had always been inclined to be
unduly modest regarding her personal appearance. Her present scrutiny
was solely for the purpose of discovering the blemish which she was
sure must be apparent to all beholders.
For a girl of her age, Priscilla had thought very little about the
opposite sex. Her devotion to Peggy had been a sufficient outlet for
her sentiment, while her contempt for those girls who could think and
talk of nothing but the "boys" had, perhaps, led her to go needlessly
far in the opposite direction. The youths who had fluttered mothlike
about the tall, graceful girl had met such a baffling indifference that
they had transferred their attentions to some more responsive luminary,
while Priscilla went on her way unruffled.
But this year things were different. The four Friendly Terrace chums
were no longer sufficient to themselves. Peggy was engaged. Since
Nelson Hallowell's return from the service, he had been a very frequent
caller at Ruth's home. And on one or two occasions when Priscilla had
run over to Amy's in the evening, she had found one of the porch chairs
occupied by Robert Carey. Priscilla began to have a feeling of being
left out, new in her experience and most unpleasant. She wondered what
there was about her to differentiate her from other girls. She studied
her reflection, dreading yet half expecting to see some flaw which
would inevitably repel the beholder.
On this particular afternoon as Priscilla faced herself in the glass
and tried to discover the defects that kept admirers at a distance,
affairs had reached a crisis. The University Field Day had long been a
thrilling occasion to many of the young people of the city, not merely
because of their interest in the various events, but because it was
customary for each of the young fellows who attended to ask some girl
to accompany him. Priscilla had taken it for granted that Peggy would
go with Graham, and was not surprised to learn that Nelson had been
promised the pleasure of Ruth's company on the important occasion. But
when she had suggested to Amy that they should go together, and Amy
after a moment's hesitation had replied, "Why, the fact is, Priscilla,
Bob Carey has asked me to go with him," Priscilla was conscious of a
distinct shock. Her subsequent dejection had nothing to do with the
prospect of missing Field Day. But when she asked herself if she were
really the least attractive girl in the world, she could see no escape
from an affirmative answer.
It was while she sat there, heavy-hearted and vaguely resentful, that
the maid brought up a card, one of those small, inobtrusive slips of
cardboard which proclaim the modesty of the socially inclined male.
Priscilla took it, impressed in spite of herself. Though she was old
enough to have become accustomed to such little conventions, the life
of a college girl is so necessarily informal that few people who came
to see Priscilla announced their presence in this fashion. And this was
the first time a young man had sent up his card to Priscilla.
"Mr. Horace Endicott Hitchcock," read Priscilla, and if the truth be
told, she was conscious of an undefined disappointment. She had known
Horace Hitchcock for a dozen years, ever since a smug little boy in
a velvet suit, he had attended the children's parties which were her
earliest social dissipations. As he was about three years older than
Priscilla she had admired him extremely in those days when the velvet
suit was much in evidence. But her attitude had altered long before she
had considered herself too old to play dolls.
Horace's boyhood had been a trying period. He had never had a boy
friend, the lads of his own age agreeing with contemptuous unanimity
that he was a "sissy." Perhaps for the same reason, the girls had found
him as little appealing. But as he neared his majority, Horace had
blossomed into a belated popularity. He was somewhat effeminate as far
as his appearance went. He talked very rapidly, and used more gestures
than is customary with young Americans. Horace dressed in excellent
taste, and was somewhat of an authority on shirts and ties and matters
equally important. Although he was supposed to be an insurance
solicitor, he was never too occupied to attend any social affair at
any hour of the day, and this gave him an advantage over the young men
who were on duty till five o'clock or later. Priscilla had seen very
little of him since she had entered college, and now as she looked at
his card she only wondered if he had come to ask her to play for some
entertainment.
Priscilla gave a last dissatisfied glance at her reflection in the
glass, captured a stray lock with a hairpin, and went downstairs.
Sensible girl as she was, she found herself impressed by Horace's
greeting. He bowed very low over her hand, like the hero of a picture
play, and drew up a chair for her with great elegance of manner. To a
girl suffering from lack of proper self-esteem, his air of deference
was peculiarly soothing. Yet even then, it never occurred to Priscilla
that this was a social call. She listened to Horace's voluble talk,
made such replies as seemed necessary, noted approvingly the perfect
fit of his light suit, and the fact that his tie matched his silk
socks, and waited patiently for him to come to the point.
Something like twenty minutes had passed when Priscilla reached a
realizing sense of the situation. All at once, while Horace was
describing minutely the country house where he had spent the previous
week-end, Priscilla gave a little start and colored high. It had just
dawned upon her that Horace had not come upon any utilitarian errand,
that he was there for the sole purpose of seeing her. It took her a
little time to adjust herself to the novel idea, and if Horace had
asked her a point-blank question during the interval, she would not
have known whether to answer yes or no, for she had not the least idea
what he was talking about.
Then Priscilla waked up. She exerted herself to be charming. She
talked almost as fluently as Horace himself. She laughed delightedly
at his little jests; though, if the truth be told, Horace's humor
was decidedly anemic. She listened raptly to his stories of his
achievements, and was ready with the expected admiring smile when the
time arrived. A curious sense of unreality possessed her. She felt as
if she were taking part in an exciting game.
"Miss Priscilla," said Horace suddenly, "are you at all interested in
Field Day?"
"It's not so bad when one knows the men," Priscilla replied, and the
answer showed the effect of Horace's influence in a little over half
an hour. For Priscilla adored Field Day. When she watched the various
events her heart pounded as if she herself were taking part in the
hundred yard dash. At the close of an exciting race, she had often
found herself on her feet, shrieking spasmodically, and waving her
handkerchief, and feeling the smart of tears in her strained eyes. But
instinctively Priscilla knew that Horace would not consider Field Day a
legitimate cause for excitement, and so she answered as she did.
"Sometimes I find it a deuce of a bore," Horace said. "The crowd and
the noise, don't you know. But if you are willing to accompany me next
Friday, Miss Priscilla, I'm sure this Field Day will prove a delightful
exception."
"Oh, thank you," Priscilla said carelessly. "I should enjoy going very
much." Her nonchalant acceptance of the invitation gave no idea of her
tumultuous excitement. She was no longer the odd one of the quartette
of chums. She was no longer left out. Her misgivings regarding herself
were instantaneously set at rest, for she knew that, had she been as
unattractive as she had feared, Horace Hitchcock would never have
invited her to accompany him on such an occasion. Her pulses throbbed,
and there was a humming in her ears as she chattered on without any
clear idea of what she was saying.
Priscilla's feeling of elation had nothing to do with Horace's
personality. Had he been any other young man, equally well dressed and
well mannered, she would have felt exactly the same. Yet under the
circumstances she experienced a not unreasonable sense of gratitude.
She shut her eyes to the little affectations of manner which
ordinarily she would have found amusing. She refused to acknowledge
to herself that Horace was bragging. She had never liked him, and
the Horace who had invited her to the Field Day exercises was in all
essentials the Horace of the velvet suit; yet now, if she had heard him
criticized, she would have rushed impetuously to his defense. In short,
Priscilla was started on a course which many an older and wiser woman
has followed to disaster.
Priscilla was in no hurry to mention the fact that she expected to be a
spectator of the Field Day events. The very intensity of her previous
qualms made her the more inclined to treat the present situation
nonchalantly. On Thursday evening, however, she remarked casually to
Peggy that she hoped their seats would not be too far separated. Peggy
looked up in pleased surprise.
"Are you going, Priscilla? I'm awful glad. Who's taking you?"
"Horace Hitchcock."
"Horace Hitchcock!" Peggy repeated the name in such accents of
astonishment that Priscilla flushed. "Why not?" she asked rather
coldly.
"I didn't know you saw anything of him."
"I've known him as long as I've known you--almost as long as I've known
anybody."
"Why, of course, Priscilla. I remember when we used to see him at
parties in a Fauntleroy suit. But I've lost track of him for an age
and I thought you had, too, that's all." There was an underlying
astonishment in Peggy's apology. She could not understand Priscilla's
seeming readiness to take offense. And when Priscilla began to talk of
something quite different, Peggy realized with fresh amazement that
the peculiarities of Horace Hitchcock were, for the present, a tabooed
topic between them.