“Your a real gentleman of the old school,” Ronny approved. “Allow me to escort you to a blow-out at Baretti’s. There is no time like the present. I’m going to gather in the Bertramites. Muriel, go gather in Leila and Vera. Tear them from the dining room table, if necessary.”
“Slave, do my bidding,” mocked Muriel as she bounced obediently from the room.
Veronica skipped lightly after her. She found the four Bertramites in Gussie’s room, solemnly wondering where poor old Gus had hidden herself. Two minutes’ explanation and the four girls were crossing the hall to Ronny’s room, a hurrying quartette.
Muriel luckily caught Leila and Vera just outside the dining room.
“I know of no one more accommodating than myself, except Midget,” was Leila’s characteristic acceptance of the invitation. “Are we not noble to wait another hour for dinner when we are starving?”
“Noble isn’t the word,” Muriel returned effusively.
“You’re too effusive to be sincere,” was Vera’s blunt opinion as the three started upstairs together.
Marjorie also had a good-will errand of her own to go on. Down stairs she quietly flitted and to the telephone. When she had finished a low-toned conversation with Robin Page at the other end of the line she hung up the receiver, clapped her hands childishly and ran upstairs, a demure little smile playing upon her lips.
Following Augusta Forbes’ bitter cup of the afternoon the “blow-out” given in her honor by P. G.’s at Baretti’s was an unexpected and effectual balm to her wounded spirit. It was a very jolly dinner, made thus by the handful of democratic girls who had “been through the Wars of the Campus,” as Jerry announced in proposing a toast to the new sophomore president. Nor had their prompt upholding of Augusta been without effect on the several groups of girls who were also dining at the restaurant. At the Colonial the sophomore ringleaders in the ignoble attempt to down Gussie were dining Doris Monroe and hotly discussing ways and means by which their faction might gain the upper hand in sophomore affairs despite the loss of the presidency on the part of their choice.
Doris, in an exquisite frock of orchid tissue with a huge bunch of real pinky-lavender orchids trailing across one bare shoulder looked more like a fairy-tale princess than ever. Some of the sophs had even begun to call her the Princess. Nor could she know that Marjorie’s flattering fancy of her, repeated to one of the Wayland Hall freshman by way of admiring Doris’s undeniable beauty, was the source of the pleasing title. What Doris did know was that she had begun to crave popularity. She was having her first taste of the sweeping impetuous admiration of the American college girl. Under an air of sweetly-smiling but still indifferent amiability Doris was reaching greedily out for popularity. It would not be her fault if she should not gain it.