Part 18 (1/2)
”Why, no, I don't think so,” said Marjorie, innocently, ”at least not any more than he paid to any of us. He was very polite to everybody, and I think he's the nicest boy I've ever met.”
”Probably that is because you have never met many people except Mexicans and Indians,” remarked Elsie sarcastically.
Marjorie, who had a quick temper of her own, flushed angrily, and was just going to say something sharp when Mrs. Carleton called them to get ready for church. Sunday was always a homesick day with Marjorie; there was not so much to do as on week-days, and she generally wrote a long home letter in the afternoon. Mr. Carleton had returned in time for breakfast, but it was not until after luncheon that Marjorie succeeded in getting him to herself. Then he proposed taking a walk, and asked the girls to accompany him. Elsie protested that she was too tired after the exertions of yesterday, but Marjorie gladly accepted her uncle's invitation, and it was during that walk that she told her little story, concealing nothing not even the battle royal with the brutal driver. Mr.
Carleton could not help smiling over his niece's account of that affair, although he grew grave again in a moment, and told Marjorie she must never interfere in such a case. But he saw nothing wrong in her having accepted Mrs. Randolph's invitation.
”I daresay your aunt is right in wis.h.i.+ng you to consult her before accepting invitations as a rule,” he said, ”but in this case I really don't see how you could have acted differently. The Randolphs are charming people, and it was very kind of them to offer to take you with them. It would have been scarcely courteous to refuse.”
Marjorie returned from her walk with a much lighter heart, and in writing a long and detailed account of the game to her father, she quite forgot to worry over Elsie's sulks, or Aunt Julia's warnings.
When the two girls arrived the next morning at the building where Miss Lothrop held her daily cla.s.ses, they found several of their cla.s.smates gathered in an eager group, all talking fast and earnestly.
”The most interesting thing is going to happen,” announced Gertie Rossiter, pouncing upon the two new arrivals. ”Lulu is getting up a club, and she wants us all to join.”
”What sort of a club?” inquired Elsie, doubtfully.
”Oh, an awfully nice one. It's to meet at our different houses on Friday evenings, and we are to sew for the poor for the first hour, and dance and play games the rest of the evening.”
”I don't believe I should care to join,” said Elsie, indifferently, as she took off her hat, and smoothed out her crimps; ”I hate sewing.”
”So do I, but the sewing is only for the first hour, and the rest will be such fun. The boys will be invited to come at nine and stay till half-past ten.”
”Boys!” repeated Elsie her face brightening; ”are there to be boys in the club, too?”
”Yes, but of course they can't sew, so Lulu is going to put them on the amus.e.m.e.nt committee. My brother Rob is going to be asked, and Bessie's two cousins, and any others we can think of. You'll be sorry if you don't join, Elsie; it's going to be splendid.”
”I never said I wasn't going to join,” said Elsie loftily, and sauntering over to the window where Lulu Bell and several other girls were still in earnest conversation, she inquired with an air of would-be indifference:
”What's all this about a club somebody is getting up?”
”It's Lulu,” said Winifred Hamilton, proudly; ”she thought of it yesterday and we all think it's such a good idea.”
”The first meeting is to be held at my house next Friday evening,” Lulu explained, ”and every member has got to read an original poem.”
”What for?” demanded Elsie, beginning to look rather blank. ”I don't see what poems have to do with a sewing club.”
”Oh, we all have to be initiated,” said Lulu, ”the way college boys are, you know, and the way we are going to initiate is to make everybody write a poem. It needn't be more than eight lines, and it doesn't matter what it's about, so long as it's poetry. It will be such fun reading the poems and deciding which is the best. The one who writes the best poem is to be president of the club. It will be decided by vote.”
”I think the club sounds very interesting,” said Elsie, with a little air of condescension, ”but if I were you I would give up the initiation; it's so silly.”
”Oh, the initiation is half the fun!” cried Lulu and Bessie both together, and Lulu, who was not very fond of Elsie, added with decision:
”Any one who isn't willing to take the trouble to write a poem can't join the club.”
”I am sure I have no objection to writing a poem,” said Elsie, shrugging her shoulders. ”It's perfectly simple; I could write one every week if I chose, but it's so foolish.”
Bessie and Gertie looked at each other, and Gertie formed the word ”brag” with her lips, but did not say it aloud. Marjorie saw the look that pa.s.sed between the two girls, and her cheeks grew suddenly hot.
Elsie was certainly very clever, but she could not help feeling that it would be better taste on her cousin's part not to talk about it.
”I wish I found it easy to write a poem,” said Winifred, mournfully. ”I never made a rhyme in my life, but Lulu says I've got to try. She made me write a story once when we were little girls, and it was the most awful nonsense you ever heard. Have you ever written a poem, Marjorie?”