A SLIGHT DISAGREEMENT
The Friday afternoon meeting of the Sigma Sigma literary society broke
up with the usual confused mingling of chatter and laughter. There had
been a lively debate, and Joyce and Cynthia, as two of the opponents,
had just finished roundly and wordily belaboring each other. They
entwined arms now, amiably enough, and strolled away to collect their
books and leave for home. Out on the street, Cynthia suddenly began:
"Do you know, we've never had that illumination in the Boarded-up House
that we planned last fall, when we commenced cleaning up there."
"We never had enough money for candles," replied Joyce.
"Yes, I know. But still I've always wanted to do it. Suppose we buy
some and try it soon,--say to-morrow?" Joyce turned to her companion
with an astonished stare.
"Why, Cynthia Sprague! You _know_ it's near the end of the month, and
I'm down to fifteen cents again, and I guess you aren't much better off!
What nonsense!"
"I have two dollars and a half. I've been saving it up ever so long--not
for that specially--but I'm perfectly willing to use it for that."
"Well, you are the queerest one!" exclaimed Joyce. "Who would have
thought you'd care so much about it! Of course, I'm willing to go in for
it, but I can't give my share till after the first of the month. Why do
you want to do it so soon?"
"Oh, I don't know--just because I _do_!" replied Cynthia, a little
confused in manner. "Come! Let's buy the candles right off. And suppose
we do a little dusting and cleaning up in the morning, and fix the
candles in the candelabrum, and in the afternoon light them up and have
the fun of watching them?" Joyce agreed to this heartily, and they
turned into a store to purchase the candles. Much to Joyce's amazement,
Cynthia insisted on investing in the best _wax_ ones she could obtain,
though they cost nearly five cents apiece.
"Tallow ones will do!" whispered Joyce, aghast at such extravagance. But
Cynthia shook her head, and came away with more than fifty.
"I wanted them _good_!" she said, and Joyce could not budge her from
this position. Then, to change the subject, which was plainly becoming
embarrassing to her, Cynthia abruptly remarked:
"Don't forget, Joyce, that you are coming over to my house to dinner,
and this evening we'll do our studying, so that to-morrow we can have
the whole day free. And bring your music over, too. Perhaps we'll have
time to practise that duet afterward."
"I will," agreed Joyce, and she turned in at her own gate.
Joyce came over that evening, bringing her books and music. As Mr. and
Mrs. Sprague were occupying the sitting-room, the two girls decided to
work in the dining-room, and accordingly spread out their books and
papers all over the big round table. Cynthia settled down methodically
and studiously, as was her wont. But Joyce happened to be in one of her
"fly-away humors" (so Cynthia always called them), when she found it
quite impossible to concentrate her thoughts or give her serious
attention to anything. These moods were always particularly irritating
to Cynthia, who rarely indulged in causeless hilarity, especially at
study periods. Prudently, however, she made no remarks.
"Let's commence with geometry," she suggested, opening the text-book.
"Here we are, at Proposition XVI."
"All right," assented Joyce, with deceptive sweetness. "Give me a pencil
and paper, please." Cynthia handed them to her and began:
"Angle A equals angle B."
"_Angel_ A equals _angel_ B," murmured Joyce after her.
"Joyce, I wish you would _not_ say that!" interrupted Cynthia, sharply.
"Why not?" inquired Joyce with pretended surprise, at the same time
decorating the corners of her diagram with cherubic heads and wings.
"Because it confuses me so I can't think!" said Cynthia. "Please call
things by their right names."
"But it makes no difference with the proof, what you call things in
geometry," argued Joyce, "whether it's angles or angels or caterpillars
or coal-scuttles,--it's all the same in the end!" Cynthia ignored this,
swallowed her rising wrath, and doggedly began anew:
"Angle A equals angle B!" But Joyce, who was a born tease, could no more
resist the temptation of baiting Cynthia, than she could have refused a
chocolate ice-cream soda, so she continued to make foolish and
irrelevant comments on every geometrical statement, until, in sheer
exasperation, Cynthia threw the book aside.
"It's no use!" she groaned. "You're not in a studying frame of mind,
Joyce--certainly not for geometry. I'll go over that myself Monday
morning; but what _you're_ going to do about it, I don't know--and I
don't much care! But we've got to get through somehow. Let's try the
algebra. You always like that. Do you think you could put your mind on
it?"
"I'll try," grinned Joyce, in feigned contrition. "I'll make the
greatest effort. But you don't seem to realize that I'm actually working
_very_ hard to-night!" Cynthia opened her algebra, picked out the
problem, and read:
"'A farmer sold 300 acres--'" when Joyce suddenly interrupted:
"Do you know, Cynthia, I heard the most interesting problem the other
day. I wonder if you could solve it."
"What is it?" asked Cynthia, thankful for any awakening symptom of
interest in her difficult friend.
"Why, this," repeated Joyce with great gravity. "'If it takes an
elephant ten minutes to put on a white vest, how many pancakes will it
take to shingle a freight-car?'" Cynthia's indignation was rapidly
waxing hotter but she made one more tremendous effort to control it.
"Joyce, I told you that I was serious about this studying."
"But so am I!" insisted the wicked Joyce. "Now let's try to work that
out. Let _x_ equal the number of pancakes--" The end of Cynthia's
patience had come, however. She pushed the books aside.
"Joyce Kenway, you are--_abominable_! I wish you would go home!"
"Well, I won't!" retorted Joyce, giggling inwardly, "but I'll leave you
to your own devices, if you like!" And she rose from the table, walked
with great dignity to a distant rocking-chair, seated herself in it, and
pretended to read the daily paper which she had removed from its seat.
From time to time she glanced covertly in Cynthia's direction. But there
was no sign of relenting in that young lady. She was, indeed, too deeply
indignant, and, moreover, had immersed herself in her work. Presently
Joyce gave up trying to attract her attention, and began to read the
paper in real earnest,--a thing which she seldom had the time or the
interest to do.
There was a long silence in the room, broken only by the scratch of
Cynthia's pencil or the rustling of a turned page. Suddenly Joyce looked
up.
"Cynthia!" she began. Her voice sounded different now. It had lost its
teasing tone and seemed a little muffled. But Cynthia was obdurate.
"I don't want to talk to you!" she reiterated. "I wish you'd go home!"
"Very well, Cynthia, I will!" answered Joyce, quietly. And she gathered
up her books and belongings, giving her friend a queer look as she left
the room without another word.
Later, Cynthia put away her work, yawned, and rose from the table. She
was beginning to feel just a trifle sorry that she had been so short
with her beloved friend.
"But Joyce was simply impossible, to-night!" she mused. "I never knew
her to be quite so foolish. Hope she isn't really offended. But she'll
have forgotten all about it by to-morrow morning.... I wonder where
to-day's paper is? Joyce was reading it--or pretending to! I want to see
the weather report for to-morrow. I hope it's going to be fair....
Pshaw! I can't find it. She must have gathered it up with her things and
taken it with her. That was mighty careless--but just like Joyce! I'm
going to bed!"