“S’listen, Susan,” said Miss Thornton, leaning on the desk, “are you going to the big game?”

“I don’t know,” said Susan, suddenly wild to go.

“Well, I want to go,” pursued Miss Thornton, “but Wally’s in Los Angeles.”  Wally was Miss Thornton’s “friend.”

“What would it cost us, Thorny?”

“Two-fifty.”

“Gosh,” said Susan thoughtfully.  The big intercollegiate game was not to be seen for nothing.  Still, it was undoubtedly the event of the sporting year.

“Hat come?” asked Thorny.

“Ye-es.”  Susan was thinking.  “Yes, and she’s made it look lovely,” she admitted.  She drew a sketch of a little face on her scratch pad.  “Who’s that?” asked Miss Thornton, interestedly.  “Oh, no one!” Susan said, and scratched it out.

“Oh, come on, Susan, I’m dying to go!” said the tempter.

“We need a man for that, Thorny.  There’s an awful crowd.”

“Not if we go early enough.  They say it’s going to be the closest yet.  Come on!”

“Thorny, honest, I oughtn’t to spend the money,” Susan persisted.

“S’listen, Susan.”  Miss Thornton spoke very low, after a cautious glance about her.  “Swear you won’t breathe this!”

“Oh, honestly I won’t!”

“Wait a minute.  Is Elsie Kirk there?” asked Miss Thornton.  Susan glanced down the office.

“Nope.  She’s upstairs, and Violet’s in Brauer’s office.  What is it?”

“Well, say, listen.  Last night—­” began Miss Thornton, impressively, “Last night I and Min and Floss and Harold Clarke went into the Techau for supper, after the Orpheum show.  Well, after we got seated—­we had a table way at the back—­I suddenly noticed Violet Kirk, sitting in one of those private alcoves, you know—?”

“For Heaven’s sake!” said Susan, in proper horror.

“Yes.  And champagne, if you please, all as bold as life!  And all dressed up, Susan, I wish you could have seen her!  Well.  I couldn’t see who she was with—­”

“A party?”

“A party—­no!  One man.”

“Oh, Thorny—­” Susan began to be doubtful, slowly shook her head.

“But I tell you I saw her, Sue!  And listen, that’s not all.  We sat there and sat there, an hour I guess, and she was there all that time.  And when she got up to go, Sue, I saw the man.  And who do you suppose it was?”

“Do I know him?” A sick premonition seized Susan, she felt a stir of agonizing jealousy at her heart.  “Peter Coleman?” she guessed, with burning cheeks.  “Peter Coleman!  That kid!  No, it was Mr. Phil!”

“Mr. Phil Hunter!” But, through all her horror, Susan felt the warm blood creep back to her heart.

“Sure.”

“But—­but Thorny, he’s married!”

Miss Thornton shrugged her shoulders, and pursed her lips, as one well accustomed, if not reconciled, to the wickedness of the world.

“So now we know how she can afford a velvet tailor-made and ostrich plumes,” said she.  Susan shrank in natural cleanness of heart, from the ugliness of it.