A satiric smile still lingered at the comers of Leslie Cairn’s unlovely
mouth as she entered the Ivy in her careless, near-slouching manner. The
irregular plainness of her features was more pronounced than usual by
reason of the stunning afternoon frock she wore of expensive creamy buff
material. Unlike the severe style of sports clothes she affected it had
the feminine lure of soft folds and exquisite creamy buff Persian
embroidery. Her full white throat rose gracefully from the round open
neck. The very short sleeves would have shown a pair of well-rounded
arms had she not worn long gloves to match her gown. Her French-heeled
slippers of the same material as her gown and the silk embroidered
hosiery of palest buff completed her “foolish rig” as she slangily
dubbed it. She was without a hat and her hair had been waved and
artistically dressed.
Doris had already settled herself at a side table in the tea room and
was perusing the menu with an air of boredom. Leslie, advancing toward
the other girl, decided that “Blondie” was as pretty as Bean, if not
prettier. She saw triumphs ahead of the supposed freshie if she did not
“flunk her exams.” Already a daring plan had entered her scheming brain.
As she dropped casually into the place at table directly opposite Doris
the latter raised her eyes from the menu card. Very deliberately the
strange greenish eyes took stock of Leslie. Leslie returned the survey
with one equally prolonged. The two girls forgot etiquette and stared at
each other like two curious children. Such they were; two children of
impulse, both spoiled by neglect and indulgence.
“Pardon me,” Leslie broke the spell in the smoothest of tones. “I am
sure I have met you before. Let me think.” She pretended to ponder.
“Wasn’t it at the fancy dress ball Mrs. Russell Fennimore gave at her
town house last March? It was a rather jolly affair. What?”
“No.” The monosyllable was decided. Leslie’s imported gown commanded a
certain respect from Doris. “I am not yet in society,” she volunteered,
not without interest. “I’ve not been presented at Court.”
“Oh-h!” Up went Leslie’s shaggy eye-brows. “You are English,” she placed
flattering stress on the last word. “Isn’t that ripping?”
“No, I’m not English.” Doris sighed. “I wish I were. I’m of English
descent, though.” She brightened a little.
“So am I,” glibly asserted Leslie, “but I’d rather live in America than
in England. I’ve been across the pond a dozen times.”
“I prefer either England or France to the United States,” Doris said
somewhat stiffly. “Paris is my favorite of all cities.”
“It’s not bad.” Leslie turned faintly patronizing. “Give me New York
above them all. Don’t you like New York? What.”
“I don’t know it,” Doris was forced to admit. She colored faintly.
Leslie’s impassive features and nonchalant air of self-possession were
very disturbing to her. In the face of them she found it hard to keep up
an indifferent pose. She experienced a contrary desire to talk to Leslie
and find out who she was. Since her advent on the campus she had seen no
one else she had come nearer to approving. Still she had no intention of
allowing this beautifully dressed, ugly stranger to patronize her.
“You aren’t really a bit English,” she now said sweetly to Leslie. “I
mean in the way you talk. You use a few common English words and phrases
in the English way; but they sound American.”
Leslie’s brows began to draw together as Doris launched this “nervy”
criticism. All of a sudden her face cleared. She treated Doris to one of
her odd silent laughs. Here was a girl after her own heart. “Blondie”
evidently had no more compunction than she about hurting another
person’s feelings. She was keen-witted enough to see that she must
travel a wary road to friendship with her “find.” Doris was sufficient
unto herself.
“Have you ordered luncheon?” she asked irrelevantly, ignoring Doris’
unflattering opinion. “The chicken a la king is particularly good here.”
Leslie picked up a menu card and busied herself with it.
“Thank you. I believe I _will_ order it.” Doris waited for Leslie to say
something else.
Leslie had nothing to say. She beckoned to a waitress and proceeded to
carry on a wise consultation with her concerning the items on the menu.
Doris began to feel ill at ease. Her brief exchange of talk with Leslie
had filled her with a sudden desire to continue the conversation.
The waitress, having written down Leslie’s order, turned inquiringly to
Doris.
“Chicken a la king,” Doris began confidently, without looking at the
menu, “and——” she glanced at Leslie. Leslie had taken a small white kid
note book from a strap purse she carried and was industriously making
notes in it with a tiny white pencil.
“Why don’t you duplicate my order?” Leslie was not too busy to miss
Doris’ hesitating tone. “I know what’s good to eat here.”
“I will, thank you.” Again Doris found herself answering Leslie with
almost meek politeness.
“That’s good.” Leslie closed the little book, put it and the pencil in
the purse and straightened her shoulders in a faithful imitation of her
father. Believing that Doris would eventually prove useful to her she
cleverly resolved to treat “Blondie” as her father might have treated a
business subordinate who was his social equal.
While waiting for the luncheon to be served the two reached slightly
better terms. Doris told Leslie her name, her father’s name and a little
concerning her life abroad. Leslie introduced herself by name, but gave
Doris no other information save that her father was a millionaire
financier. Leslie was deliberating as to how much of her Hamilton
history she should tell Doris. If she expected to become friendly with
“Blondie” she must acquaint her with a glossed over account of her
expulsion from college. Sooner or later Doris would be sure to hear an
echo of it on the campus.
“How do you like Wayland Hall?” Leslie inquired, when, in the course of
conversation Doris remarked her residence there.
“I don’t like it at all,” Doris shrugged her dislike.
“It’s the best house on the campus. I lived there for almost four years.
I ought to know.” Leslie came out boldly with the information.
“You did!” Doris laid down her salad fork and surveyed Leslie with
genuine astonishment. “Then you were graduated from Hamilton College.
Were you graduated last June?”
“No,” Leslie gained dramatic effect by a slow, pensive shake of the
head. Her loose-lipped mouth tightened into pretended regret. “I was
preparing to be graduated a year ago last June. A senior, supposed to be
my dear friend, started a hazing story about me and sixteen other girls.
We were all members of a very exclusive club. We asked the girl who made
the trouble for us to resign from our club. She had circulated untrue
stories about us on the campus. For pure spite she wrote a letter to
Prexy Matthews, claiming that we hazed a junior on a certain winter
night.
“You see,” Leslie continued with elaborate earnestness, “on St.
Valentine’s night the juniors always give a masquerade ball in the gym.
Before the dance the maskers walk around on the campus and kid one
another and any one else who happens to cross the campus without a mask.
Even the faculty are fair game for kidding. Some of us started to have a
little fun with a prig of a junior by the name of Dean. We bothered her
a trifle; nothing to speak of. We got away with it O. K., but we had a
traitor in our own crowd. She told the biggest gossip on the campus
about it. We held a club meeting, called her down and asked for her
resignation. Then she put Prexy on our trail. We were all expelled from
college only a few weeks before we would have been graduated. I might
have saved myself—I don’t know.” Leslie put on a self-sacrificing air.
Doris’ earlier indifference had completely vanished with the knowledge
that Leslie had been a student at Hamilton. Her interest increased as
Leslie continued her narrative.
“If any such trouble had happened to me I’d never wish to see Hamilton
College again,” was Doris’ view of the matter. “Most girls are so
deceitful. I wouldn’t go to the pains to be. I think it’s snaky to be
deceitful, even in little things.”
“Yes, isn’t it?” Leslie cheerfully concurred. “I’m glad you feel so
about it. It is hard to find a really sincere girl whom one can trust.”
Doris was not specially impressed by Leslie’s remarks. Under her
fairy-tale princess exterior she possessed a stolid side of character
which did not respond to flattery. She knew she was beautiful. She did
not need the assurance from others. She believed herself not deceitful.
Leslie’s opinion of her sincerity did not matter.
“There’s a Miss Dean at Wayland Hall now,” Doris remarked, her interest
still hovering over Leslie’s story of the hazing.
“That is the one,” Leslie said impressively. “I knew she was somewhere on
the campus. I supposed she would be at Wayland Hall. All I have to say
of her is—well——” Leslie made an effective pause. “I’d prefer to say
nothing,” she ended with a sigh.
“I have met her, and the girls she goes with. One of them is of the
faculty; four are post graduates. I do not like any of them,” Doris
announced with flat finality. “I _detest_ Miss Remson.”
A crafty gleam appeared in Leslie’s small dark eyes. Here was better
luck than she had hoped for. “I understand the way you feel,” she nodded
with deceitful sympathy. “I had three years at the Hall with Miss Dean
and her bunch. It was more than enough for me. As for Remson——” Leslie
spread her hands in a deprecatory gesture—“She’s hopeless.”
“I can’t endure her,” Doris agreed with more energy of tone than she had
previously used. “She imagines herself of such importance. She is merely
an upper servant.” The girl’s short upper lip lifted in scorn.
Miss Remson had bitterly offended Doris by paying no attention to her
after she had snubbed the five Travelers. The wise little manager had
decided to let the supercilious young woman work out her own salvation.
She spoke courteously to Doris when she chanced to encounter her about
the house, but not one word of pleasantry did she offer. Long experience
with girl nature had taught her the value of such a course in a case
where false pride, instead of good breeding dominated.
“Think of me!” Leslie leaned confidentially forward toward Doris. “I
stood her and that baby-booby bunch of Be—er—Miss Dean’s friends for
years. Of course I had a dandy pal. That helped a whole lot. Then the
Sans, our club gang, were a zippy bunch. We all had cars at Hamilton.
Some of the girls had two chug wagons apiece. Money was no object. There
were scads of coin behind our gang. All the Sans’ governors were
millionaires, most of ’em multi-millionaires, hitting the financial high
spots.”
Stung by Doris’ criticism of her imitation of an English drawl Leslie
had wisely dropped it. Instead, she began flavoring her remarks with
slang by way of impressing her companion. Leslie had shrewdly appraised
Doris during the luncheon. She now believed that she understood
“Blondie” and would be able to manage her.
“I wanted my maid to come here with me, but my father wouldn’t let me
have her,” pouted Doris. “Celeste would have been better company than a
lot of stupid students.”
Leslie forgot the rôle she had essayed to play of light good humor. Her
famous scowl, heavy and disfiguring showed itself. Blondie was not
impressed by her slang, her troubles or her money. “You don’t want a
maid at college,” she scoffed gruffly. “I wouldn’t be bothered with one,
even coming here from Newport. I sent my maid on a vacation.”
“I wish Celeste were with me,” Doris obstinately repeated. As if
determined to be contrary she continued. “There’s one girl at the Hall
that I’d not call baby-booby. She is really distingué. I don’t recall
her name. She said to me that she was born in Ireland and——”
“Leila Harper!” was Leslie’s interrupting exclamation. “She is clever as
a wizard, and a terror. She’s crazy about Miss Dean and her gang. Look
out for her. I don’t care to gossip, but perhaps I’d better tell you
some things about that crowd. You ought to know them. After luncheon why
not take a spin with me in my car? Maybe you’ve seen it. It’s white, and
a dream. I’d love to have you come along.”
Leslie had forced back her rising irritation and turned pleasant again.
“Thank you, but——” Doris hesitated. She regarded Leslie with a
thoughtful, innocent air which was a mask she assumed. Behind it she
studied Leslie’s ugly, almost grotesque features and the expensive
luxury of her costume. Self, the little inner deity Doris worshipped,
bade her accept the invitation and enjoy the ride. If she did not
approve afterward of Leslie it would be easy enough to snub her roundly.
“I’ll come with you. It’s no end kind in you to ask me,” she accepted
without enthusiasm.
“So glad to have you.” Leslie managed to keep sarcastic inflection out
of her reply. She was already beginning to discover that Blondie was
“certainly a selfish proposition.” Still, try as she might where could
she have found another girl so well suited to her purpose?
“Great work,” she congratulated herself as the two girls emerged from
the Ivy to where the white car stood in all its creamy, glittering
glory. “Blondie is down on Remson, can’t stand Bean and the Bean stalks
and she lives at Wayland Hall. She knows me and we’re going to be
chummy. It’s as good as a private wire between me and the Hall. Can you
beat it?”