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“Oh, they’re all right,” broke in Betty. “I had them last year. The closet is awfully small, but next year perhaps you can have a single.”

“But Betty,” persisted Lucile, “this is a serious matter to me. Are you sure I shall like her?”

“Come and see,” laughed Betty, starting for the door. “It’s ten now and you’ll be locked in, but as long as you’re here you may as well stay with me to-night and see how we live on the campus. But then,” she turned back to add, “it’s not so important, Lucile,—your liking her or not. You can’t help liking college, roommate or no roommate, closet-hooks or no closet-hooks. (I haven’t any of those yet. That’s why my room is in such a mess,—or at least it’s one reason.)” She gave a long sigh of content. “Oh, Lucile, this is the grandest place, especially if you live up here on the campus.”

Mary Brooks came through the hall just in time to catch Betty’s last sentence.

“Why, Betty Wales,” she said severely, “what do you mean by talking like that? You told me not two hours ago that you were horribly bored.”