Enter Christine
The girls at Patty’s Place were dressing for
the reception which the Juniors were giving for the
Seniors in February. Anne surveyed herself in
the mirror of the blue room with girlish satisfaction.
She had a particularly pretty gown on. Originally
it had been only a simple little slip of cream silk
with a chiffon overdress. But Phil had insisted
on taking it home with her in the Christmas holidays
and embroidering tiny rosebuds all over the chiffon.
Phil’s fingers were deft, and the result was
a dress which was the envy of every Redmond girl.
Even Allie Boone, whose frocks came from Paris, was
wont to look with longing eyes on that rosebud concoction
as Anne trailed up the main staircase at Redmond in
it.
Anne was trying the effect of a white orchid in her
hair. Roy Gardner had sent her white orchids
for the reception, and she knew no other Redmond girl
would have them that night—when Phil came
in with admiring gaze.
“Anne, this is certainly your night for looking
handsome. Nine nights out of ten I can easily
outshine you. The tenth you blossom out suddenly
into something that eclipses me altogether. How
do you manage it?”
“It’s the dress, dear. Fine feathers.”
“’Tisn’t. The last evening
you flamed out into beauty you wore your old blue
flannel shirtwaist that Mrs. Lynde made you. If
Roy hadn’t already lost head and heart about
you he certainly would tonight. But I don’t
like orchids on you, Anne. No; it isn’t
jealousy. Orchids don’t seem to belong
to you. They’re too exotic—too
tropical—too insolent. Don’t
put them in your hair, anyway.”
“Well, I won’t. I admit I’m
not fond of orchids myself. I don’t think
they’re related to me. Roy doesn’t
often send them—he knows I like flowers
I can live with. Orchids are only things you can
visit with.”
“Jonas sent me some dear pink rosebuds for the
evening—but—he isn’t coming
himself. He said he had to lead a prayer-meeting
in the slums! I don’t believe he wanted
to come. Anne, I’m horribly afraid Jonas
doesn’t really care anything about me.
And I’m trying to decide whether I’ll
pine away and die, or go on and get my B.A. and be
sensible and useful.”
“You couldn’t possibly be sensible and
useful, Phil, so you’d better pine away and
die,” said Anne cruelly.
“Heartless Anne!”
“Silly Phil! You know quite well that Jonas
loves you.”
“But—he won’t tell me
so. And I can’t make him. He looks
it, I’ll admit. But speak-to-me-only-with-thine-eyes
isn’t a really reliable reason for embroidering
doilies and hemstitching tablecloths. I don’t
want to begin such work until I’m really engaged.
It would be tempting Fate.”
“Mr. Blake is afraid to ask you to marry him,
Phil. He is poor and can’t offer you a
home such as you’ve always had. You know
that is the only reason he hasn’t spoken long
ago.”
