A TOUCH OF STYLE AND SOME OTHER TOUCHES
"The Merry Hearts" lost no time in arranging the details of what Babbie
called Georgia's coming-out party. Various methods of bringing her to
public notice were discussed, but it was finally decided that each
"Merry Heart" should do whatever her individual taste and inclination
suggested, only each must add some touch, however slight, to the sum
total of Georgia's achievements, report what she had done at the next
ensuing meeting of the society, and be very careful not to divulge the
secret of Georgia's personality to any outsider.
Then the fun began. It was curious to see how each girl's personality
came out in the way she manipulated Madeline's second self. The B's, as
was to be expected, contributed touches of style. Babbie immediately
ordered a card plate for Georgia, with a hundred cards engraved
according to the latest decree of fashion. Watching her opportunity
she slipped one under the door of a Westcott House senior who made a
specialty of cultivating freshman friendships. The mystified senior
inquired busily for two days without eliciting any definite information
as to the identity of her caller, and Georgia's name became very
familiar to the Westcott House girls.
A day or two later a huge box of violets arrived by special messenger
for Miss Georgia Ames. The parlor-maid was new to the ways of the
house (this Bob had counted upon in ordering the flowers), and without
looking at the name on the box, she laid it on the table in the
front hall. There it stayed all day, stared at and sighed over by
envious passersby, who easily guessed the character of its contents
and lamented that, having been sent to the wrong address, a bunch of
violets as big as this one must hide its sweetness under a bushel.
After dinner, while the girls lingered in the hall and parlors, as
was their custom, Bob engaged in conversation the senior who had been
the recipient of Babbie's card and carelessly led her toward the hall
table.
"Violets!" she exclaimed, as if she had spied the box for the first
time. "Whom do you suppose they're for?"
The senior, who was accustomed to being deluged with flowers by her
freshman admirers, hastened up to the table. "Georgia Ames," she read.
"Why, how funny! That's the girl who called on me the other day, and I
haven't been able to find out who she is or where she lives. But she
certainly doesn't live in this house. Isn't it a perfect shame to have
those violets wasted?"
"Yes," agreed Bob, who intended to creep down and confiscate the box
after ten. "But what can we do about it?"
The senior considered a moment, and then her face brightened. "Why,
find out who sent them, of course," she said, "and telephone her to
send an A. D. T. boy after them."
"Of course," said Bob, who knew well that there was no card inside
the box. The string was badly knotted, and Bob insisted upon untying
it with the greatest care, so that it could be replaced later. With
her fingers on the last knot she paused and looked up at the senior
anxiously. "You don't think it's wrong," she said, "to look at the
card in another person's box of flowers?"
"Of course not, under the circumstances," said the senior acidly. "It's
only doing as you'd be done by."
"That depends on the card, I should say," murmured Bob under cover of
the rustling paper. A moment later she looked up smilingly. "We're not
so bad after all," she said. "There isn't any card. Do you suppose Miss
Ames is engaged or only awfully popular? Anonymous flowers mean one
thing or the other, don't they?"
"I suppose so, but we can telephone to the florist," said the senior
eagerly. "I really must find out her address, you know. She's almost
sure to be interesting, or she wouldn't be getting such stunning
violets."
Bob had covered her trail well. The florist replied that the order had
been brought in by a messenger boy, the name and address written on a
card. Had he still the card? Yes, but the address was very illegible.
It looked more like Westcott House than anything else. He was sorry,
but there seemed to be no way of locating Miss Ames.
Bob, waiting to hear the result of the conversation from the senior's
own lips, was joined by Roberta, who had come over to the Westcott on
an errand, and together they listened to the senior's story.
"Well, I'm sure you've done your best," Roberta assured her. "It's a
shame to waste the violets. Why don't you take them, since she's a
friend of yours--or an acquaintance any way? I'm sure you've fairly
earned them."
The senior looked doubtfully at Bob, who was glaring stonily at
Roberta. "Yes, take them by all means," said Bob sweetly. "Oh, no, I
don't want any. A bunch like that costs three dollars and eighty cents,
if you care to know."
As the senior mounted the stairs with her treasure, Bob turned
wrathfully upon Roberta. "You're a base traitor," she said, "and I
shall get even with you sooner or later. But I guess I had my money's
worth in spite of you," she added with a grin. "Isn't Georgia the best
ever?"
The senior spread the story of the violets widely among her circle of
friends. She even declared her intention of going to the registrar for
Georgia's address; but there were a great many other freshmen in the
entering class that year, and she never went.
Nita's "touch" stirred up the whole Hilton House, and caused Nita
herself endless trouble. The picture post-card fad was at its height
and Nita was making a collection. Writing to thank an aunt who had sent
her a number of foreign cards, she bethought herself of Georgia, and
added a postscript. "A lot of the girls here are making collections
of cards. Some day when you have time do send one to Georgia Ames
(address, Harding College, Harding). She is always doing me favors."
The aunt responded promptly, and as there was no Georgia Ames in
Harding, at least according to the postal register, the card went to
the Hilton, with "Try Georgiana Arms," written across it. The aunt had
unfortunately seen fit to indite an explanatory line or two below the
picture, and Georgiana Arms read it. "My niece, Nita Reese," wrote the
aunt, "begs me to send you this card in token of the many favors you
have done her. I need not say that my niece's friends are mine."
Georgiana Arms, who had barely a speaking acquaintance with Nita,
realized that the card could not be meant for her, and seeing Nita in
the library soon after, she took it out of her philosophy note-book,
where she had stored it for safekeeping, and asked Nita for the right
address.
Nita was fairly caught. She had meant to create an interest in Georgia,
but she had not considered the possibility of having to explain her own
interest in the elusive freshman. She read the post-card slowly, trying
to gain time and evolve some way of escape, and finally passed it back
to Miss Arms. "There isn't any such girl in college as far as I know,"
she said.
"That's exactly what the mail-man told me," answered Miss Arms. "But
I thought--why, your aunt says you asked her to send this Miss Ames a
post-card. I don't understand----"
"There's some mistake," Nita equivocated.
"You mean she isn't your aunt?" demanded Miss Arms.
"Oh, she's my aunt, fast enough," laughed Nita, "but she misunderstood
about this Georgia Ames."
"I see," said Miss Arms doubtfully. "Well, do you want the card?"
"Oh, no," said Nita politely, though the card was a beauty. "Keep it by
all means."
Miss Arms looked hard at it. "You're quite sure it doesn't belong to
any one?"
"Perfectly," Nita assured her. "My aunt--well, she's a trifle
eccentric, you see."
"I see," said Miss Arms, and this time she spoke with great
positiveness. She confided to a group of her particular friends a
little later that she had always wondered why Nita Reese was so funny
about some things, and now she had found out. There was insanity in
the family,--"Eccentricity, she calls it," explained Miss Arms, and
then told the story of the post-card. One of her friends lived at the
Westcott, and consequently knew about Georgia's violets. There were
exciting comparisons, and Georgia's boom grew amazingly.
Two days later Miss Arms's theory of the situation, already shaken by
the violet story, received a fatal blow. It was proved to her full
satisfaction that Georgia Ames was no figment of an "eccentric" aunt's
imagination. She existed and she went to Harding. Mary Brooks had been
to New York to see her father and mother off for a winter in Italy, and
she sent Georgia a note, written on Waldorf-Astoria paper and signed
"Mary." Miss Arms opened it before she noticed the address, and read it
through in growing bewilderment. Then she looked again at the envelope,
and saw Georgia Ames's name. She consulted Nita, who disclaimed any
particular interest in the matter.
"Didn't I tell you that my aunt was mistaken?" she asked. "You can't
expect me to know all the 'Marys' who stay at the Waldorf. It does seem
to me that the name Georgia Ames is on Dr. Eaton's English Essayists
roll, but I've never even seen the girl."
Dr. Eaton was by no means neglected by "The Merry Hearts." Babe,
sacrificing her prettiest handkerchief to the cause, marked it
carefully with indelible ink, and as she passed out of her English
recitation dropped it carelessly on the professor's desk. From a dark
corner of the hall she watched him pick it up, look at the mark, and
consult Jean Eastman, who was the last person to leave the class that
morning, about its owner.
Jean evidently assured him that there was no such person in the class,
for he presently took out his roll-call and pointed out the last name
on the list. Jean looked amazed, and Babe heard her asking the girls in
front of her if they knew any Georgia Ames who carried handkerchiefs
with real lace on them and took English Essayists.
But it was Helen Chase Adams who made the crowning hit, as far as Dr.
Eaton was concerned. Unfortunately for his classes, Dr. Eaton did not
tire of the ten-minute test. He still resorted to it with unbecoming
frequency, and his students were obliged to endure as best they might
his remarkable zest for extracting information. So Helen conceived the
idea of having Georgia's mother remonstrate with him on the score of
danger to her daughter's health.
"It was great fun composing it," Helen explained to Betty, "though I
did feel a little like a forger. But I don't suppose there is any Mrs.
Erasmus J. Ames in the world. Do you think Dr. Eaton will answer it?"
"Oh, yes," said Betty eagerly. "He's very punctilious about little
things, I've noticed. But how can you get the answer? What address did
you give?"
"Just Harding. I wrote as if I was visiting Georgia. Let's go to the
office and inquire for Mrs. Erasmus J. Ames's mail."
Sure enough, Dr. Eaton's answer was waiting. Helen read it to "The
Merry Hearts" that evening.
"MY DEAR MRS. AMES:
"While I appreciate your interest in your daughter's college work and
also in her health, permit me to say that I think you over-estimate
the nervous strain imposed by the necessity for producing a brief
written exercise. Your daughter's work is so brilliant and likewise
so spontaneous that I feel sure you need not be anxious about her. I
regret her recent absence from the class on my own account as well as
on hers. I remain, madam,
"Most respectfully,
"JOHN ELLIOT EATON."
"Now," said Madeline, "how is that for subtle flattery and
sugar-coated sarcasm? 'Madam, you are a goose, but you have a clever
daughter,'--that's what he virtually says. How I detest that man!"
"You're too hard on him, Madeline," laughed Rachel. "Consider what he
says about your work."
"Georgia's, you mean," corrected Madeline. "He never puts good comments
on my own themes. He is like all the rest of the faculty; once get him
interested, as Georgia did with her Matthew Arnold theories, and you
are safe from conditions forever after."
"What does he mean about her 'recent absence'?" asked Helen.
"Exactly what I want to know," said Madeline. "Haven't you girls been
handing in her ten-minute tests?"
"Of course we haven't," said Betty. "That is your 'touch.' You began
it, and we couldn't keep it up even if we wanted to. We can't any of us
write one decent theme in ten minutes, to say nothing to doing two."
"Well, then," began Madeline grudgingly, "I suppose I must attend to
Georgia's written work. But I consider that it's putting a great deal
off on me."
"Wasn't she yours to begin with?" demanded Mary. "Aren't you getting
all the fun of what we do for her, and won't she always be known in
Harding history as your second self?"
Madeline smiled genially. "There's something in that, perhaps," she
said. "I do certainly like the way you're bringing her out. Before she
joined 'The Merry Hearts' she was just clever and literary. Now she has
style and social position."
"And a real lace handkerchief," murmured Babe, "that Dr. Eaton never
took to the 'Lost and Found' place, so I could get it back."
"And a three-dollar-and-eighty-cent-bunch of violets," added Bob, with
a wrathful glance at Roberta.
"I wish you hadn't named her father Erasmus J.," said Madeline. "Still
there's nothing positively unpleasant about Erasmus J., and I rather
like the idea of her having a fussy, stupid little mother."
"How many more weeks to midyears?" asked Rachel.
"Five to Christmas," said Betty, who always counted the days from the
beginning of each term to the nearest vacation.
"Well, we must make the most of them," said Mary briskly. "We shall be
dreadfully busy between Christmas and midyears."
"You don't think," inquired Helen doubtfully, "that it's wrong to signs
Georgia's name or her mother's to papers or letters?"
"No," said Mary decidedly, "I don't; that is, if we only use her for
fun, and are careful not to let her do any harm to any one. As long as
she is just a gloriously big joke, I'm sure she's all right."
With which presidential decision "The Merry Hearts" wisely rested
satisfied.