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Margaret Warde.

Betty Wales, Junior

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“Hello, Betty Wales. Please amuse me.”

Betty was sitting on the floor of her own long-coveted “single,” surrounded by a bewildering array of her possessions, which she had unpacked according to her own particular system of taking everything out at once, and now, as usual, she had no idea where to dispose of them. At the sound of the voice, the unwonted pucker of anxiety left her forehead, and she jumped up, scattering the photographs she had been sorting right and left, and made a rush for the newcomer.

“Oh, Mary Brooks! Maybe I’m not glad to see you. I’m—I think I’m homesick.”

Mary grinned cheerfully. “You ought to be used to it by this time—to the joys of being back on time, I mean. It’s I that have reasons for feeling like a little lost lamb. Do you know, this is positively my first appearance at the regular opening functions.”

“Really?” laughed Betty. “What’s going to happen?”

“Nothing new, I hope,” said Mary; “but Miss Stuart delicately hinted that the wrath of Jove would descend upon me if I didn’t get here on time. Where’s everybody?”