Chapter XXVI

Enter Christine

The girls at Patty’s Place were dressing for the reception which the Juniors were giving for the Seniors in February.  Anne surveyed herself in the mirror of the blue room with girlish satisfaction.  She had a particularly pretty gown on.  Originally it had been only a simple little slip of cream silk with a chiffon overdress.  But Phil had insisted on taking it home with her in the Christmas holidays and embroidering tiny rosebuds all over the chiffon.  Phil’s fingers were deft, and the result was a dress which was the envy of every Redmond girl.  Even Allie Boone, whose frocks came from Paris, was wont to look with longing eyes on that rosebud concoction as Anne trailed up the main staircase at Redmond in it.

Anne was trying the effect of a white orchid in her hair.  Roy Gardner had sent her white orchids for the reception, and she knew no other Redmond girl would have them that night—­when Phil came in with admiring gaze.

“Anne, this is certainly your night for looking handsome.  Nine nights out of ten I can easily outshine you.  The tenth you blossom out suddenly into something that eclipses me altogether.  How do you manage it?”

“It’s the dress, dear.  Fine feathers.”

“’Tisn’t.  The last evening you flamed out into beauty you wore your old blue flannel shirtwaist that Mrs. Lynde made you.  If Roy hadn’t already lost head and heart about you he certainly would tonight.  But I don’t like orchids on you, Anne.  No; it isn’t jealousy.  Orchids don’t seem to belong to you.  They’re too exotic—­too tropical—­too insolent.  Don’t put them in your hair, anyway.”

“Well, I won’t.  I admit I’m not fond of orchids myself.  I don’t think they’re related to me.  Roy doesn’t often send them—­he knows I like flowers I can live with.  Orchids are only things you can visit with.”

“Jonas sent me some dear pink rosebuds for the evening—­but—­he isn’t coming himself.  He said he had to lead a prayer-meeting in the slums!  I don’t believe he wanted to come.  Anne, I’m horribly afraid Jonas doesn’t really care anything about me.  And I’m trying to decide whether I’ll pine away and die, or go on and get my B.A. and be sensible and useful.”

“You couldn’t possibly be sensible and useful, Phil, so you’d better pine away and die,” said Anne cruelly.

“Heartless Anne!”

“Silly Phil!  You know quite well that Jonas loves you.”

“But—­he won’t tell me so.  And I can’t make him.  He looks it, I’ll admit.  But speak-to-me-only-with-thine-eyes isn’t a really reliable reason for embroidering doilies and hemstitching tablecloths.  I don’t want to begin such work until I’m really engaged.  It would be tempting Fate.”

“Mr. Blake is afraid to ask you to marry him, Phil.  He is poor and can’t offer you a home such as you’ve always had.  You know that is the only reason he hasn’t spoken long ago.”