Marjorie Dean, Post-Graduate

As the five took places in the car they talked of the trip Leila had planned to Sanford and of the engagements they had made previous to Wednesday. On Monday evening Miss Remson and the five post graduates were to be entertained at dinner by President and Mrs. Matthews. Tuesday afternoon and evening were to be spent at Hamilton Arms. What with luncheon at Baretti’s on Monday at one o’clock and luncheon the next day at the Lotus their time was well filled.

While the roadster was traveling the stretch of highway which formed a complete southern boundary of the college campus the chums again happened upon Miss Monroe. To see her was to admire her beauty afresh without inquiring into her failings. The sleeveless frock she wore, a delicate French creation of pale green silk and filmy white net, served to enhance the astonishing whiteness of her throat, shoulders and arms. Under the pale green lining of a white parasol which she held between herself and the too-ardent sun, her eyes shone forth, deeply mysteriously green. There was artistry in the rather simple waving and coiffing of her spun gold hair. White silk stockings and white suede slippers completed a costume which made her appear so charmingly lovely the chums found themselves regretting her lack of sociability.

“It is too bad not to ask her to go with us,” Marjorie said in a low tone to Leila. “I imagine she is out for a walk today because she is lonely.”

“Let us see. I will be the first to disregard my own advice.” Leila rose to the occasion wholly to please Marjorie.

“Oh, Leila, I’d rather you – ”

Leila leaned forward and said: “Stop the wagon, Midget.” She flashed Marjorie a smile of utter good humor. “Don’t worry, Beauty. I shall not groan with broken bones.”

Miss Monroe was strolling along the time-worn stone walk of the college which lay between the highway and the campus wall. On the other side of the highway was only a footpath. Her attention fixed on the opposite side of the highway she had not noted the stopping of the roadster. She turned her eyes ahead only when she had come up within a few feet of it. Her face darkened with annoyance. She half turned as though about to bolt in an opposite direction. Then she tossed her blonde head and advanced along the walk.

“Good afternoon, Miss Monroe,” Leila leaned out of the car. “We’re off for a ride and dinner at Orchard Inn. Won’t you come with us?” Leila conscientiously endeavored to put persuasive friendliness into the invitation.

“No.” Miss Monroe stopped short and shook a decisive head. “I don’t care in the least for that sort of treat. Thank you.” A chilly smile flickered only to die on her lips.

“We’re going to have luncheon at Baretti’s on Monday – ” Marjorie spoke the rest of the invitation into the air. Miss Monroe had gone on, apparently without having heard it.

“I have no patience with that girl!” Vera broke out indignantly as the discourteous student continued to put distance between herself and the carload of girls. In her vexation Vera allowed the car to stand for an instant.

“Uh-h-h!” Leila was cautiously going over her arms, shoulders and hands for broken bones. “Keep your temper, Midget. Your Irish friend is still alive. So is Beauty; who thinks she is talking to someone, and finds she has been talking to the wind.”

“Better luck another day. I decline to abandon the field of honor,” Marjorie said with cheerful undauntedness. “I believe the fairy-tale princess has been enchanted by a wicked wizard and is under a magic spell. Some day I’m going to break the spell.”

CHAPTER XVII. – “BLONDIE”

Doris Monroe glanced in contemptuous fashion at the roadster when, a moment or two later, it sped past her on the highway. Far from being appreciative of the helpful spirit which had lived in spite of the rebuff she had given the Travelers, she felt instead that she had an actual grievance against them. She had chosen to take offense at the time of the evening and the informality which had attended their call on her. For this she had labeled them as ill-bred; gauche; stupid. She had seen plenty of American girls in England and on the Continent. She thought she detested them. In reality she did not. Her trouble began with herself. She had always been so completely wrapped up in herself that she now had no interest in any other girl of her own age. Secure in her unusual beauty she lived only to please Doris Monroe. Marjorie’s whimsy concerning Doris as an enchanted princess under the spell of a wicked wizard was nearer truth than fancy. Self was a powerful wizard likely to keep the spoiled girl in bondage indefinitely.

Her mother had died when she was five years old. Her father, an American, of English descent, had won considerable prestige as an explorer. London or Paris was home to him, however, when he returned to civilization from his long expeditions into the Tropics. When at home he had paid a fair amount of attention to the bringing up and educating of his daughter. When on a trip he had left her in the care of a governess or at a private school for girls. She had had a succession of governesses. She had attended both English and French Schools. Of college, particularly college in the United States, she knew nothing. The fact that her father had suddenly decided to ship her to Hamilton College before going on the Amazon expedition was still a sore matter with her.

She had arrived on the campus in much the same spirit as a stirred-up porcupine, ready to launch a shower of quills at the first person who chanced to offend her. She was bitterly angry with her father for sending her to college and she transferred that anger to Hamilton as soon as she arrived at Wayland Hall. She despised her room, the campus, Miss Remson – most of all she detested the five P. G.’s who were altogether too ready to become friendly.

Doris was not looking forward to the opening of the college as a relief for loneliness. All her short life she had been so well satisfied with herself for company that she had rarely made acquaintance with other girls. Of the joys of having a chum she knew nothing. While she considered the campus “a ghastly dull spot” she had no happy anticipations of the “mobs” of girls which she dreaded to see invade it.

She was thinking of this not far distant calamity, which she could not avoid, as she walked sulkily along the highway wondering what to do that afternoon by way of amusement. Those stupid girls had acted as though she were a beggar to whom they were trying to be kind. Her red lips curved scornfully at thought of their stupidity. She decided she would take a taxicab into the town of Hamilton. She hoped she would meet “the cheeky things” on the way. It would prove to them that she could go driving if she chose. What to do in Hamilton she did not know. Go to a tea shop for an ice, perhaps.

She presently hailed a taxicab returning from a trip on the campus, an only, but lovely occupant. Half way to town she passed a white roadster, which, though conspicuous, compelled her admiration. It was driven by Leslie Cairns, to whom Doris paid not the slightest attention. Leslie, on the contrary, stared hard at Doris. During the week she had now been in Hamilton she had seen Doris twice; once at the Lotus; once near the campus.

The defeat of her unscrupulous plan to prevent Marjorie Dean and Robin Page from obtaining the site they desired for the dormitory they purposed to build had not discouraged Leslie Cairns. She owned property next to the dormitory site presented by Miss Hamilton she had reflected, with her strange hobgoblin smile. Through Lola Ester, who had been graduated in the same class with Marjorie, she had learned that Marjorie and Robin were to return to Hamilton during the summer in the interest of the proposed dormitory. Leslie had decided immediately that she, also, would return, and had laid plans accordingly.

In itself the idea of building a garage on her land after it had been cleared of the row of old houses had not specially interested Leslie. She had used the garage prospect merely as an excuse for buying the property away from the girls she disliked. Now she had a fresh incentive to proceed with it. It would give her untold opportunity to keep in touch with the undertaking of which Marjorie Dean was the strongest power. Further, she would hear the news of the college; possibly meet a few students who might amuse her.

If Leslie Cairns had been graduated from Hamilton College, instead of having been expelled from it she would have probably lost all interest in it. Her contrary disposition caused her to value, too late, that which she had irretrievably lost by her own unworthiness. Not for worlds would she have confessed that she cared a button about the forfeited diploma. Nevertheless, she cared. The diploma would have meant her father’s proud favor. It was galling to her to know that she had been the one to close the gates of Hamilton College against herself. That particular bitter reflection boosted her interest in Hamilton as nothing else could have done. It also strengthened an ignoble desire toward any malicious mischief which her willing hand might find to do.

The day before leaving Newport she had bought the smart white roadster which she was now driving and had ordered it to be driven to the town of Hamilton. It had not arrived until a week later and she had been obliged either to hire a car temporarily or walk. She had been driving the hired car on the Sunday evening when she had passed Vera’s roadster on Hamilton Highway.

Sight of Leslie Cairns’ uncomely face, suddenly appearing out of the darkness, had surprised, but not dismayed, Marjorie. Leila had been concerned by it to the extent of exclaiming sarcastically: “Now why was I not at the station to meet her?” None of the other three girls had glimpsed her in that instant of betraying light. It was not until the quintette were crossing the campus to the Hall from the garage that Leila told them the news. Girl-like they had exclaimed over it. With the exception of Leila they had spoken of Leslie Cairns far more kindly than she deserved. Leila was, what she liked to call herself, “a good Irish hater.” She and Leslie had entered Hamilton College in the same autumn. She had often said candidly to Marjorie and her chums that she detested Leslie more thoroughly than any other girl she had ever known.

Leila had joined the fight for democracy at Hamilton, which Marjorie and her Sanford friends had made during their freshman year, chiefly because she enjoyed thwarting Leslie Cairns and the other San Soucians. Later, when she had come to know and understand Marjorie’s fine nature, her own really great soul responded to it. She had fought then for democracy because she loved Marjorie and believed in fair play. She continued, however, to hold and be proud of her animosity toward Leslie Cairns.

The old saying: “There’s many a true word spoken in jest” seemed on the way to be proven so far as Doris Monroe and Leslie Cairns were concerned. Leila’s satirical opinion of the “fine time” the two might spend together because of their common lack of courtesy was on the way to come to pass. Leslie had decided in the moment when her car passed the taxicab holding Doris that she wished to meet “Blondie,” as she mentally named the other girl.

Leslie’s wish became her law whenever she could encompass it. She turned the white roadster about as soon as she could and sent it speeding in the direction taken by the station taxicab. She caught sight of the dark blue taxi as she whizzed around a curve with reckless speed. That the road chanced to be clear was her good fortune. She smiled to herself, muttering: “No more of that kind of business. I’ll be apt to let myself in for trouble. But I had to pick up that taxi.”

With the blue taxicab now in sight and her car close behind it Leslie began to speculate on Doris’ destination. “I’ll say she’s bound for eats; either at the Lotus, or the Ivy.”

“The Ivy it is?” she surmised triumphantly as the taxicab continued on down Herndon Avenue and up Linden Avenue. “I’ll watch her into the Ivy; then I think I’ll stroll in there, too. My guess – she’s on the campus, stuffing for her entrance exams. She’s certainly not visiting Remson or any other of the campus aggregation of frumps. I think it’s my duty to get acquainted with Blondie.”

CHAPTER XVIII. – A CONGENIAL PAIR

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.”