On Monday, Leslie, now elated by her newest plan, relented and called Doris Monroe on the telephone. While she had been ready to condemn Doris for going to the hop, nevertheless she had a thriving curiosity to know what had happened at the dance.

The two girls met by appointment at the Colonial and in a far pleasanter frame of mind than that of the preceding Thursday.

“I may go to New York,” Leslie announced, directly they had found a table to suit their difficult fancy and seated themselves. “I’m expecting a letter or a telegram from”—Leslie checked herself abruptly—“from a dear friend,” she continued. “Even if I shouldn’t hear from this friend I may go anyway.”

“And, of course, I can’t get leave of absence to go with you.” Doris spoke pettishly, dissatisfaction looming large on her perfect features. “We made a mistake in not going there at Thanksgiving. You could have gone. It rained too hard for you to attend to any business about your garage site.”

“That’s all you know about it,” Leslie indulged in one of her silent laughs. “I was very busy in town on Thanksgiving morning. Don’t get New Yorkitis, Goldie. We’ll go to little old N. Y. for the Easter vacation. Maybe our house will be open then,” she predicted hopefully. She felt signally cheered even by the remote prospect.

Leslie had already begun the composition of a letter to her father. She wrote, crossed out and re-wrote. She had not yet evolved from her labor the letter she hoped would soften her father’s unforgiving heart.

“When will you go to New York?” Doris showed signs of mollification. The promise of an Easter vacation in New York with Leslie to show her the metropolis was something to be gracious over.

“Don’t know. Not for a week. Perhaps not for two.” Leslie donned her most indifferent air. She had volunteered as much as she thought wise to Doris concerning her New York trip. “Tell me about the hop,” she said craftily, switching the subject from herself to her companion.

“Oh, it was so, so.” Doris shrugged lightly. “My pale blue frock was sweet. A lot of fuss was made over me. There wasn’t a Beauty contest.” Her face registered disappointment. “Julia Peyton said she’d start one, but she couldn’t make it go. The crowd was crazy to dance.”

“She is a big bluff, and her pal, red-headed Miss Carter is a stupid. Look out for both of them,” was Leslie’s succinct criticism. She had been introduced to the two sophs by Doris and had mentally decided against both.

“They have been awfully sweet to me,” Doris returned half offended. She did not enjoy having her admirers belittled. “So were Miss Page, Miss Moore and the rest of that new sorority. Miss Page is charming. What a pity she throws herself away on that horrid Sanford crowd. I was glad they weren’t at the hop. I’d not have taken charge of the admission fee if they had been.”

“You would if it had happened to suit you,” Leslie coolly told her. Then she laughed. “Don’t bristle and get ready to throw quills at me, Goldie. I know you thoroughly. I must say I’m surprised to hear you raving over Page when you know Page and Bean are my special abomination.”

“You never said a word about Miss Page,” Doris flashed back.

“She’s a Beanstalk. Wasn’t that enough to let you know what I thought of her? Aren’t she and Bean always together?”

“I’m not crazy about Miss Page,” Doris jerked out angrily. She purposely avoided answering Leslie’s questions.

“I’ll say you’re not. There’s only one person you are crazy about. That’s Doris Monroe,” Leslie said with savage emphasis.

“That’s not fair, nor true,” sputtered Doris. Unguardedly her clear cold tones rose higher than she knew. “I’m not crazy about myself—or anyone else. I’d like you best of all, Leslie, if you weren’t so awfully bullying. I won’t be bullied. That’s all there is to it.”

“So it would appear.” Leslie’s retort was grimly sarcastic. “Sorry you had to tell the natives about it.” She made an angry movement of the head toward the next table below them. Around it sat Gussie Forbes, Calista Wilmot and Flossie Hart, placidly eating ices.

“They couldn’t hear what I said,” Doris defended, half abashed, half sulky. “I’m sure they couldn’t.”

“You’re the one to worry, if they did,” shrugged Leslie. “It can’t do one little bit of harm to me. Forget it. What do you know about this bus trouble the bread and cheese priggies are having? Have the busses really stopped running between town and the campus? I heard they stopped on Thanksgiving Day. I haven’t seen you since then.” Leslie made a success of looking innocent.

She had not divulged to Doris, either before or on Thanksgiving Day, her part in the bus trouble. Bitter experience with the Sans had taught her the value of keeping her own counsel. She now listened to Doris’s vague information concerning the non-running busses, an enigmatical smile playing upon her lips. She was delighted to hear of the inconvenience her scheme had caused and determined that it should continue indefinitely. She had money. Sabani would do as she ordered so long as plenty of money accompanied her orders.

“Those two were certainly having a fuss,” commented Flossie Hart as the three sophomores left the tea room, directly after Doris’s angry outburst.

“I’m going to tell Marjorie about it.” Gussie made the announcement with great decision.

“Telling tales is a bad practice,” laughingly rebuked Flossie.

“I know why you’re going to.” Calista’s quick mind instantly jumped at a certain conclusion. “I will, if you don’t.”

“I’m still in the dark,” mourned Flossie. “Kindly enlighten me. Forgive me for being so stupid. Doesn’t that sound just like Muriel?”

“Yes, Floss. Muriel might think it was herself talking if she happened to hear you.” Gussie favored her room-mate with a condescending smile.

The three hurried along the street to the main campus gate. “Race you to the Hall,” challenged Gussie the instant they set foot on the snow-patched brown of the campus. A playful wind, not too penetrating, frolicked with them as they ran, blowing added bloom into their cheeks.

Aside from the one remark Flossie had made about Doris and Leslie Cairns nothing else had been said. As members of the new Travelers the Bertram girls were endeavoring to live up to one of the basic rules of their code; never to discuss anyone for the interest derived from the discussion. The discussion must come as necessary to the promotion of welfare.

“I hope Marjorie’s in.” Gussie was presently pounding vigorously on the door of 15, a chum at each elbow.

“Why not leave us the door?” blandly inquired Jerry as she opened it to the vociferous demand for admission. “Is it really you, Gentleman Gus? I haven’t seen you for as much as three hours. The last occasion was at lunch.” Jerry smirked soulfully at her callers.

“Where’s Marjorie?” Gussie peered over Jerry’s head and into the room. “We’ve a bit of special information. You’re privileged to hear it too, Jeremiah?”

“She has gone to Baretti’s. She was to meet Robin and go there. They had an appointment with Guiseppe. He wrote Marjorie one of his one-line funny little notes. I think he has news for Page and Dean.”

“Um-m.” Gussie looked undecided for a moment. “We’ll come back later.” She looked first at her chums for conformation, then at Jerry. “Let us know when she comes, Jerry. We love you dearly enough to hang around in your room till Marjorie comes, but there’s a time for study, et cetera. Only I don’t know when it will be if not now. You may pound on my door as hard as I pounded on yours, but no harder.”

“Suit yourself,” Jerry waved an affable hand. “I can live without you. I have a letter to write. I’d enjoy perfect quiet.”

The three sophomores went gaily down the hall. Jerry again shut herself in her room to write a letter which she had for some time been searching for an excuse to write. That very morning in the corridor of Hamilton Hall she had found it. It had come in the shape of a particularly sheer, dainty, hand-embroidered handkerchief, bearing the monogram L. M. W. Instantly her mind had began to canvass among the initials of her friends for L. M. W. Intending to place it in the students’ “Lost and Found,” after class Jerry had tucked it away in her hand bag and hurried to her recitation.

During class her mind continued to revert to the initials L. M. W. Jerry thoroughly enjoyed being baffled temporarily by a problem which she was confident she would solve eventually. In the midst of her cogitations she chanced to call to mind the name of a student whose initials were surely L. M. W. Whereupon a beatific smile paused on Jerry’s face for a second. She promptly forgot her surroundings to dwell triumphantly instead upon the beauty of a certain stunt she determined to “put over” as soon as she returned to her room. Nor did she visit the “Lost and Found” on her way to the Hall.

Seated at the study table Jerry eyed the dainty handkerchief meditatively. Should she write to L. M. W., whom she hoped was Louise M. Walker, merely asking the sophomore if she had lost the beautiful bit of linen, or should she fold the handkerchief inside a note she would write, asking Miss Walker to place the article in the “Lost and Found” should it not belong to her? Jerry considered the problem owlishly, then wrote:

“Dear Miss Walker:

“Have you lost a handkerchief? I am enclosing one I found, in the corridor of Hamilton Hall, bearing your initials. If it is not yours, will you kindly place it in the ‘Lost and Found’?

“There! She’ll be an untutored savage if she ignores my kindly little act,” Jerry decided with a grin. “If I wrote asking her if she’d lost the handkerchief she might ’phone me, or come here. That’s not what I’m after. She ought to write me a line of acknowledgment. If she should—I’ll know one thing that I don’t know now.”