Kitabı oku: «Marjorie Dean, College Junior», sayfa 3
CHAPTER VI – THE LAST OF THE HAMILTONS
The man promptly brought the machine to a slow stop. He was too well acquainted with the whims of “them girls from the college” to exhibit surprise. Having paid her fare on entering the taxicab, Marjorie now quitted it with alacrity and ran back to the scene of the mishap.
“Please let me help you,” she offered in a gracious fashion which came straight from her heart. “I saw the handle of that basket break and I made the driver stop and let me out of the taxi.”
Without waiting for Miss Susanna’s permission, Marjorie stooped and lay hold on one of the scattered flower pots. Thus far the old lady had made no effort to gather them in. She had stood eyeing the unstable basket with marked disgust.
“And who are you, may I ask?” The brisk manner of question reminded Marjorie of Miss Remson.
“Oh, I am Marjorie Dean from Hamilton College,” Marjorie said, straightening up with a smile.
For an instant the two pairs of dark eyes met. In the old lady’s appeared a gleam half resentful, half admiring. In the young girl’s shone a pleasant light, hard to resist.
“Yes; I supposed you were one of them,” nodded Miss Susanna. “Let me tell you, young woman, you are the first I have met in all these years from the college who had any claim on gentle breeding.”
Marjorie smiled. “There are a good many fine girls at Hamilton,” she defended without intent to be discourteous. “Any one of a number I know would have been glad to help you.”
“Then that doll shop has changed a good deal recently,” retorted the old lady with rapidity. “Nowadays it is nothing but drive flamboyant cars and spend money for frivolities over there. I hate the place.”
Marjorie was silent. She did not like to contradict further by saying pointedly that she loved Hamilton, neither could she bear the thought of not defending her Alma Mater.
“I can’t say that I hate Hamilton College, because I don’t,” she finally returned, before the pause between the two had grown embarrassing. “I am sure you must have good reason to dislike Hamilton and its students or you would not say so.”
The pink in her cheeks deepened. Marjorie bent and completed the task of returning the last spilled posy to the basket.
“There!” she exclaimed good-naturedly. “I have them all in the basket again, and not a single one of those little jars are broken. I wish you would let me carry the basket for you, Miss Hamilton. It is really a cumbersome affair without the handle.”
“You are quite a nice child, I must say.” Miss Susanna continued to regard Marjorie with her bright, bird-like gaze. “Where on earth were you brought up?”
Signally amused, Marjorie laughed outright. She had raised the basket from the ground. As she stood there, her lovely face full of light and laughter, arms full of flowers, Miss Susanna’s stubborn old heart softened a trifle toward girlhood.
“I come from Sanford, New York,” she answered. “This is my junior year at Hamilton. Four other girls from Sanford entered when I did.”
“Sanford,” repeated her questioner. “I never heard of the place. If these girls are friends of yours I suppose they escape being barbarians.”
“They are the finest girls I ever knew,” Marjorie praised with sincerity.
“Well, well; I am pleased to hear it.” The old lady spoke with a brusquerie which seemed to indicate her wish to be done with the subject. “You insist on helping me, do you?”
“Yes; if it pleases you to allow me.”
“It’s to my advantage, so it ought to,” was the dry retort. “I am not particular about lugging that basket in my arms. I loaded it too heavily. Brian, the gardener, would have carried it for me, but I didn’t care to be bothered with him. I am carrying these down to an old man who used to work about the lawns. His days are numbered and he loves flowers better than anything else. He lives in a little house just outside the estate. It is still quite a walk. If you have anything else to do you had better consider it and not me.”
“I was on my way to town. It is too late to go now.” Marjorie explained the nature of her errand as they walked on. “The girls will probably come to the conclusion that I found it too late to go to Hamilton after I had changed my gown. One or another of them will buy me something pretty to give to Elaine,” she ended.
“It is a good many years since I bought a birthday gift for anyone. I always give my servants money on their birthdays. I have not received a birthday gift for over fifty years and I don’t want one. I do not allow my household to make me presents on any occasion.” Miss Susanna announced this with a touch of defiance.
“It seems as though my life has been full of presents. My father and mother have given me hundreds, I guess. My father is away from home a good deal. When he comes back from his long business trips he always brings Captain and I whole stacks of treasures.”
Marjorie was not sure that this was what she should have said. She found conversing with the last of the Hamiltons a trifle hazardous. She had no desire to contradict, yet she and her new acquaintance had thus far not agreed on a single point.
“Who is ‘Captain,’” was the inquiry, made with the curiosity of a child.
Marjorie turned rosy red. The pet appellation had slipped out before she thought.
“I call my mother ‘Captain,’” she informed, then went on to explain further of their fond home play. She fully expected Miss Susanna would criticize it as “silly.” She was already understanding a little of the lonely old gentlewoman’s bitterness of heart. Her earnest desire to know the last of the Hamiltons had arisen purely out of her great sympathy for Miss Susanna.
“You seem to have had a childhood,” was the surprising reception her explanation called forth. “I can’t endure the children of today. They are grown up in their minds at seven. I must say your father and mother are exceptional. No wonder you have good manners. That is, if they are genuine. I have seen some good imitations. Young girls are more deceitful than young men. I don’t like either. There is nothing I despise so much as the calloused selfishness of youth. It is far worse than crabbed age.”
“I know young girls are often selfish of their own pleasure,” Marjorie returned with sudden humility. “I try not to be. I know I am at times. Many of my girl friends are not. I wish I could begin to tell you of the beautiful, unselfish things some of my chums have done for others.”
Miss Susanna vouchsafed no reply to this little speech. She trotted along beside Marjorie for several rods without saying another word. When she spoke again it was to say briefly: “Here is where we turn off the road. Is that basket growing very heavy?”
“It is quite heavy. I believe I will set it down for a minute.” Marjorie carefully deposited her burden on the grass at the roadside and straightened up, stretching her aching arms. The basket had begun to be considerable of a burden on account of the manner in which it had to be carried.
“I couldn’t have lugged that myself,” Miss Susanna confessed. “I found it almost too much for me with the handle on. Ridiculous, the flimsy way in which things are put together today! Splint baskets of years ago would have stood any amount of strain. If you had not kindly come to my assistance, I intended to pick out as many of those jars as I could carry in my arms and go on with them. The others I would have set up against my own property fence and hoped no one would walk off with them before my return. I dislike anyone to have the flowers I own and have tended unless I give them away myself.”
“I have often seen you working among your flowers when I have passed Hamilton Arms. I knew you must love them dearly or you would not spend so much time with them.”
“Hm-m!” The interjection might have been an assent to Marjorie’s polite observation. It was not, however. Miss Susanna was understanding that this young girl who had shown her such unaffected courtesy had thought of her kindly as a stranger. She experienced a sudden desire to see Marjorie again. Her long and concentrated hatred against Hamilton College and its students forbade her to make any friendly advances. She had already shown more affability according to her ideas than she had intended. She wondered why she had not curtly refused Marjorie’s offer.
“I am rested now.” Marjorie lifted the basket. The two skirted the northern boundary of Hamilton Arms, taking a narrow private road which lay between it and the neighboring estate. The road continued straight to a field where it ended. At the edge of the field stood a small cottage painted white. Miss Susanna pointed it out as their destination.
“I will carry this to the door and then leave you.” Marjorie had no desire to intrude upon Miss Susanna’s call at the cottage.
“Very well. I am obliged to you, Marjorie Dean.” Miss Susanna’s thanks were expressed in tones which sounded close to unfriendly. She was divided between appreciation of Marjorie’s courtesy and her dislike for girls.
“You are welcome.” They were now within a few yards of the cottage. Arriving at the low doorstep, Marjorie set the basket carefully upon it. “Goodbye, Miss Hamilton.” She held out her hand. “I am so glad to have met you.”
“What’s that? Oh, yes.” The old lady took Marjorie’s proffered hand. The evident sincerity of the words touched a hidden spring within, long sealed. “Goodbye, child. I am glad to have met at least one young girl with genuine manners.”
Marjorie smiled as she turned away. She had never before met an old person who so heartily detested youth. She knew her timely assistance had been appreciated. On that very account Miss Susanna had tried to smother, temporarily, her standing grudge against the younger generation.
Well, it had happened. She had achieved her heart’s desire. She had actually met and talked with the last of the Hamiltons.
CHAPTER VII – TWO KINDS OF GIRLS
“You are a dandy,” was Jerry’s greeting as Marjorie walked into their room at ten minutes past six. “Where were you? Lucy said you ruined your blue pongee with some horrid old chemical. It didn’t take you two hours to change it, did it? I see we have on our pink linen.”
“You know perfectly well it did not take me two hours to change it. A plain insinuation that I’m a slowpoke. Take it back.” In high good humor, Marjorie made a playful rush at her room-mate.
“Hold on. I am not made of wood, as Hal says when I occasionally hammer him in fun.” Jerry put up her hands in comic self-defense. “You certainly are in a fine humor after keeping your poor pals waiting for you for an hour and a half and then not even condescending to appear.”
“I’ve had an adventure, Jeremiah. That’s why I didn’t meet you girls in Hamilton. I started for there in a taxicab. Then I met a lady in distress, and, emulating the example of a gallant knight, I hopped out of the taxi to help her.”
“Wonderful! I suppose you met Phil Moore or some other Silvertonite with her arms full of bundles. About the time she saw you she dropped ’em. ‘With a sympathetic yell, Helpful Marjorie leaped from the taxicab to aid her overburdened but foolish friend.’ Quotation from the last best seller.” Jerry regarded Marjorie with a teasing smile.
“Your suppositions are about a mile off the track. I haven’t seen a Silvertonite this afternoon. The lady in distress I met was – ” Marjorie paused by way of making her revelation more effective, “Miss Susanna Hamilton.”
“What? You don’t say so.” Jerry exhibited the utmost astonishment. “Good thing you didn’t ask me to guess. She is the last person I would have thought of. Now how did it happen? I am glad of it for your sake. You’ve been so anxious to know her.”
Rapidly Marjorie recounted the afternoon’s adventure. As she talked she busied herself with the redressing of her hair. After dinner she would have no more than time to put on the white lingerie frock she intended to wear to Elaine’s birthday party.
Jerry listened without comment. While she had never taken the amount of interest in the owner of Hamilton Arms which Marjorie had evinced since entering Hamilton College, she had a certain curiosity regarding Miss Susanna.
“I knew you girls would wait and wonder what had delayed me. I am awfully sorry. You know that, Jeremiah,” Marjorie apologized. “But I couldn’t have gone on in the taxi after I saw what had happened to Miss Susanna. She couldn’t have carried the basket as I did clear over to that cottage. She said she would have picked up as many plant jars as she could carry in her arms and gone on with them.”
“One of the never-say-die sort, isn’t she? Very likely in the years she has lived near the college she has met with some rude girls. On the order of the Sans, you know. If, in the past twenty years, Hamilton was half as badly overrun with snobs as when we entered, one can imagine why she doesn’t adore students.”
“It doesn’t hurt my feelings to hear her say she disliked girls. I only felt sorry for her. It must be dreadful to be old and lonely. She is lonely, even if she doesn’t know it. She has deliberately shut the door between herself and happiness. I am so glad we’re young, Jeremiah.” Marjorie sighed her gratitude for the gift of youth. “I hope always to be young at heart.”
“I sha’n’t wear a cap and spectacles and walk with a cane until I have to, believe me,” was Jerry’s emphatic rejoinder. “Are you ready to go down to dinner? My hair is done, too. I shall dress after I’ve been fed. Oh, I forgot to tell you. I bought you a present to give Elaine. We bought every last thing we are going to give her at the Curio Shop.”
“You are a dear. I knew some of the girls would help me out. I supposed it would be you, though. Do let me see my present.”
“There it is on my chiffonier. You’d better examine it after dinner. It is a hand-painted chocolate pot; a beauty, too. Looks like a bit of spring time.”
“I’ll look at it the minute I come back. I’m oceans obliged to you.” Marjorie cast a longing glance at the tall package on the chiffonier, as the two girls left the room.
At dinner that night Marjorie’s adventure of the afternoon excited the interest of her chums. She was obliged to repeat, as nearly as she could what she said to Miss Susanna and what Miss Susanna had said to her.
“Did she mention the May basket?” quizzed Muriel with a giggle.
“Now why should she?” counter-questioned Marjorie.
“Well; she was talking about not receiving a birthday present for over fifty years. She might have said, ‘But some kind-hearted person hung a beautiful violet basket on my door on May day evening!’”
“Only she didn’t. That flight of fancy was wasted,” Jerry informed Muriel.
“Wasted on you. You haven’t proper sentiment,” flung back Muriel.
“I’ll never acquire it in your company,” Jerry assured. The subdued laughter the tilt evoked reached the table occupied by Leslie Cairns, Natalie Weyman, Dulcie Vale and three others of the Sans.
“Those girls seem to find enough to laugh at,” commented Dulcie Vale half enviously.
“Simpletons!” muttered Leslie Cairns. She was out of sorts with the world in general that evening. “They sit there and ‘ha-ha-ha’ at their meals until I can hardly stand it sometimes. I hate eating dinner here. I’d dine at the Colonial every evening, but it takes too much time. I really must study hard this year to get through. I certainly will be happy to see the last of this treadmill. I’m going to take a year after I’m graduated just to sail around and have a good time. After that I shall help my father in business.”
“There’s one thing you ought to know, Leslie, and that is you had better be careful what you do this year. I have heard two or three rumors that sound as though those girls over there had told about what happened the night of the masquerade. I wouldn’t take part in another affair of that kind for millions of dollars.”
Dulcie Vale assumed an air of virtuous resolve as she delivered herself of this warning to Leslie.
“Don’t worry. There won’t be any occasion. I don’t believe those muffs ever told a thing outside of their own crowd. They’re a close corporation. I wish I could say the same of us.” Leslie laughed this arrow with cool deliberation.
“What do you mean?” Harriet Stephens said sharply. “Who of us would be silly enough to tell our private affairs?”
“I hope you wouldn’t.” Leslie’s eyes narrowed threateningly. “I have heard one or two things myself which may or may not be true. I am not ready to say anything further just now. My advice to all of you is to keep your affairs to yourselves. If you are foolish enough to babble your own about the campus, on your head be it. Be sure you will hear from me if you tell tales. Besides, you are apt to lose your diplomas by it. A word to the wise, you know. I have a recitation in psychology in the morning. I must put in a quiet evening. Kindly let me alone, all of you.” She rose and sauntered from the room, leaving her satellites to discuss her open insinuation and wonder what she had heard to put her in such an “outrageous” humor.
CHAPTER VIII – A FROLIC AT SILVERTON HALL
The “simpletons” finished their dinner amid much merriment, quite unconscious of their lack of sense, and hustled up to their rooms to dress for the party. Leila, Vera, Helen, Hortense Barlow, Eva Ingram, Nella Sherman and Mary Cornell had also been invited. Shortly after seven the elect started for Silverton Hall, primed for a jubilant evening. Besides their gifts, each girl carried a small nosegay of mixed flowers. The flowers had been purchased in bulk by Helen, Eva and Mary. The trio had made them up into dainty, round bouquets. These were to be showered upon Elaine, immediately she appeared among them. Helen had also composed a Nonsense Ode which she said had cost her more mental effort than forty themes.
Every girl at Silverton Hall was invited to the party. It was not in gentle Elaine to slight anyone. With twenty girls from other campus houses, the long living room at the Hall was filled. Across one of its lower corners had been hung a heavy green curtain. What it concealed only those who had arranged the surprise knew. Elaine had been seized by Portia Graham and Blanche Scott and made to swear on her sacred honor that she would absolutely shun the living room until granted permission to enter it.
“I hope you have all put cards with your presents,” were Portia’s first words after greeting them at the door. “You can’t give them to Elaine yourselves. We’ve arranged a general presentation. So don’t be snippy because I rob you of your offerings.”
“Glad of it.” Jerry promptly tendered her gift to Portia. “I always feel silly giving a present.”
The others from Wayland Hall very willingly surrendered their good-will offerings. Their bouquets they kept. Entering the reception hall, Elaine stepped forward to welcome them and received a sudden flower pelting, to the accompaniment of a lively chorus of congratulations.
“How lovely! Umm! The dear things!” she exclaimed, as the rain of blossoms came fast and furious. Her sweet, fair face aglow with the love of flowers, she gathered them up in the overskirt of her white chiffon frock and sat down on the lower step of the stairs to enjoy their fragrance. “I am not allowed in the living room, girls. Everyone can go in there but poor me. I thank you for these perfectly darling bouquets. I’ll have a different one to wear every day this week. If you want to fix your hair or do any further beautifying go up to Robin’s room. If not, go into the living room.”
Lingering for a little further chat with Elaine, whom they all adored, they entered the living room to be met by a vociferous welcome from the assembled Silvertonites. When the last guest had arrived and been ushered into the reception room, from somewhere in the house a bell suddenly tinkled. In order to give more space the chairs had been removed and the guests lined the sides of the apartment and filled one end of it halfway to the wide doorway opening into the main hall.
At sound of the bell a hush fell upon the merry-makers. Again it tinkled and down the stairs came a procession that might have stepped from a tapestry depicting the life of the greenwood men. Four merry men, their green cambric costumes carefully modeled after the attire of Robin Hood and his followers, had come to the party. The first, instead of being Robin Hood, was Robin Page. She bowed low to Elaine, who was still languishing in exile in the hall, and offered her arm.
“Delighted; I am so tired of hanging about that old hall!” Elaine seized Robin’s arm with alacrity and the two passed into the adjoining room. The other three faithful servitors followed their leader. The last one carried a violin and drew from it an old-time greenwood melody as Elaine and Robin joined forces and paraded into the living room.
Straight toward the green curtain Robin piloted Elaine to the fiddler’s plaintive tune. Stationed before the curtain, Blanche Scott drew it aside.
A surprised and admiring chorus of exclamations arose. There stood a real greenwood tree. Portia and Blanche could have amply testified to this fact as the two of them, armed with a hatchet, had laboriously chopped down a small maple and brought it to the house from the woods on the afternoon previous. Its branches were as well loaded with packages of various sizes as those of a Christmas tree. Under the tree was a grassy mound built up of hard cushions, the whole covered with real sod dug up by the patient wood cutters.
On this Elaine was invited to sit. She formed a pretty picture in her fluffy white gown in conjunction with the greenery. The four merry men gathered round her and bowed low, then sang her an ancient ballad to the accompaniment of the violin. Followed a short speech by the tallest of the four congratulating her, in stately language on the anniversary of her birth. Three of the four then busied themselves with stripping the tree of its spoils and laying them at her feet. During this procedure the fiddler evoked further sweet thin melodies from his violin.
Last, Elaine’s gallant escort, who had left her briefly, returned to the scene with a large green and white straw basket, piled high with gifts. These duly presented, the quaint bit of forest play was over and the enjoying spectators crowded about the lucky recipient of friendly riches.
“I don’t know what I shall ever do with them all,” she declared in an amazed, quavering voice. “I’m not half over the shock of so much wealth yet. I simply can’t open them now. I’ll weep tears of gratitude over every separate one of them.”
“You aren’t expected to look at them now,” was Robin’s reassurance. “Your merry men are going to carry Elaine’s nice new playthings up to her room. So there! Tomorrow’s Saturday. You can spend the afternoon exploring. We are going to have a stunt party now. Anyone who is called upon to do a stunt has to conform or be ostracized.”
“If we are going to do stunts there is no use in bringing back the chairs. After Elaine’s presents have all been carted upstairs everybody can stand in that half of the room. We can roll the rug up from the other end exactly half way. That will give room and a smooth floor for dancing stunts. We shall surely have some,” planned Blanche. “I had better inform the company of what’s going to happen next. It will give them a chance to think up a stunt.”
While the faithful greenwood men busied themselves in Elaine’s behalf, Blanche proceeded to make a humorous address to the guests. Her announcement sent them into a flutter. At least half of the crowd protested to her and to one another that they did not know any stunts to perform.
When the deck was finally clear for action and the show began, it was amazing the number of funny little stunts that came to light. The first girl called upon was Hortense Barlow. She marched solemnly to the center of the improvised stage and announced “‘Home Sweet Home,’ by our domestic animals.” A rooster lustily crowed the first few bars of the old song, then two hens took it up. They relinquished it in favor of a bleating lamb. It was succeeded by a pair of grunting pigs. The opening bars of the chorus were mournfully “mooed” by a lonely cow, and the rest of it was ably sung by a donkey, a dog and a guinea hen. She then repeated the chorus as a concerted effort on the part of the barnyard denizens.
The manner in which she managed to imitate each creature, still keeping fairly in tune, was clever in the extreme. Her final concert chorus convulsed her audience and she was obliged to repeat it.
Hers was the only encore allowed. Portia announced that, owing to the lack of time, encores would have to be dispensed with. The guests had received permission to be out of their house until half-past eleven and no later.
Leila was the next on the list and responded with an old-time Irish jig. Vera Ingram and Mary Cornell gave a brief singing and dancing sketch. Jerry responded with the one stunt she could do to perfection. She had half closed her eyes, opened her mouth to its widest extent, and wailed a popular song just enough off the key to be funny. Heartily detesting this class of melody, she never failed to make her chums laugh with her mocking imitation.
Portia being in charge of the stunt programme, she called upon Blanche who gave the “Prologue from Pagliacci” in a baritone voice and with expression which would have done credit to an opera singer. Lucy Warner surprised her chums by a fine recital of “The Chambered Nautilus,” giving the quiet dramatic emphasis needed to bring out Holmes’ poem. Marie Peyton danced a fisher’s hornpipe. Vera Mason borrowed one of Robin’s kimonos and a fan and performed a Japanese fan dance. Several of the Silvertonites sang, danced, recited, or told a humorous story.
“As we shall have time for only one more stunt, I will call on Ronny Lynne,” Portia announced, smiling invitingly at Ronny. “Wait a minute until I call the orchestra together. We will play for you,” she added.
“Play for me for what?” Ronny innocently inquired. Nevertheless she laughed. Though she had yet to dance for the first time at Hamilton, she knew that her ability as a dancer was an open secret.
“For your dance, of course. What kind of dance are you going to do? Mustn’t refuse. Everyone else has been so obliging.” Portia beamed triumph of having thus neatly caught Ronny.
“I suppose I must fall in line. I don’t know what to dance. Most of my dances require special costumes.” Ronny glanced dubiously at the white and gold evening frock she was wearing. “I know one I can do,” she said, after a moment’s thought.
Raising her voice so as to be heard by all, she continued in her clear tones: “Girls, I am going to do a Russian interpretative dance for you. The idea is this: A dancer at the court of a king, who is honored because of her art, loses her sweetheart. She becomes so despondent that no amount of praise can lift her from her gloom. She tries to decide whether she had best kill her rival or herself. Finally she decides to kill her rival. I shall endeavor to make this plain in a dance containing two intervals and three episodes. The first depicts the dancer in her glory. The second, in her dejection. The third, her decision to kill.”
A brief consultation with the orchestra as to what they could play, suitable to the interpretation, and Ronny was ready. Phyllis, the reliable, who had been proficient on the violin from childhood, and possessed a wide musical repertoire, both vocal and instrumental, played over a few measures of a valse lente. Her musicians were familiar enough with it to follow her lead. Moskowski’s “Serenade” was chosen for the second episode, and Scharwenki’s “Polish Dance” for the third.
Every pair of eyes was centered on Ronny’s slight, graceful figure as she stood at ease for an instant waiting for the music to begin. Many of the girls present had never seen an interpretative dance. With the first slow, seductive strains of the waltz, Ronny became the court dancer. In perfect time to the music she made the low sweeping salutes to an imaginary court, then executed a swaying, beautiful dance of intricate steps in which her whole body seemed to take part in the expression of her art. The grace of that symphonic, white and gold figure was such the watchers held their breath. At the end of the episode there was a dead silence. Applause, when it came, was deafening.
Ronny claimed the tiny interval for rest, merely raising her hands in a despairing gesture at the hub-bub her dance had created. By the time she was ready to continue it had subsided. All were now anxious to see her interpretation of the jilted woman.
The second, though much harder to execute, Ronny liked far better than the first. Particularly fond of the Russian idea of the dance, she threw her whole heart into the story she was endeavoring to convey by motion. When she had finished she was tired enough to gladly claim a rest while Portia went upstairs for a paper knife which would serve as a dagger for the third episode.
The wild strains of the “Polish Dance” were well suited to the character of the episode. The flitting, white and gold figure of indolent grace had now become one of tense purpose. Every line of her figure had now become charged with the desire for revenge. Every step of the dance and movement of the arms were in accordance with the mood she was portraying. She enacted the dancer’s plan to steal upon her rival unawares and deliver the fatal knife thrust.
Had Ronny not explained the dance beforehand, so vivid was her interpretation, her audience could have gained the meaning of it without difficulty. A united sighing breath of appreciation went up as she concluded the Terpsichorean tragedy by a triumphant flinging of her arms above her head, one hand tightly grasping the murder knife.
Carried out of life ordinary by the glimpse of another world of emotion, it took the admiring girls a minute or so to realize that Ronny was herself and a fellow student. She had cast over them the perfect illusion of the tragic dancer; the sure measure of her art. When they came out of it they crowded about her asking all sorts of eager questions.
