book I write--along with a pinch or two, maybe, of the queer thing
called genius. The grind in the books I do myself, because I have to, and it’s fun--the long, steady pull up to that lovely stopping place called Finis. I say, Betty, this old-maid business isn’t so bad. Just think of all the fun we’ve had doing things, and all the fun we’re going to have with the Coach and Four. Those others give up a lot for a mere man.”
Betty smiled indulgently at Madeline’s declaration of independence. “If it hadn’t been for a mere man named Morton, the Tally-ho would have gone to smash long ago,” she reminded her. “Mary Brooks hasn’t stopped doing interesting things because she’s married, and Babe could do anything she liked--have half a dozen tea-shops, if she wanted them. Mr. Morton would give them to her like that! Only of course you’ve got to find the right man.”
Madeline said nothing to that; she only watched Betty’s face suddenly take on its sober, far-away, grown-up look, and wondered what that meant.
Presently Betty came out of her brown study.
“‘Coach and Four might do for name. Down Thursday with Miss Ayres to talk things over and begin arrangements.’ Does that sound like a businesslike telegram, Madeline? And will you surely go on Thursday? You must promise fair and square, because Mr. Morton perfectly hates to be disappointed. Well then, come with me to the telegraph office.”
“I wouldn’t give much for Jim Watson’s chances,” Madeline told Babe, who was sharing her room, later the same evening. “She is too happy as she is. I tell you, Babe, when a girl has found her niche, and it’s as big as Betty’s is and is going to be, it takes an extra-specially wonderful man to carry her off her feet.”
Babe sniffed. “It’s quite evident you’ve never been in love, Madeline Ayres.”
“I’ve written some stunning love-scenes,” Madeline retorted with a grin.
“If you think that’s the same thing, you can just wait,” Babe told her loftily.
“All right,” said Madeline. “I shall have to, I guess. Incidentally I know something that will make you stare and be glad you know such distinguished and brilliant old maids as Betty and me.”
“What?” demanded Babe, vastly excited.
“Can’t tell you yet a while.”
“Why not?”
“Because Betty said not to.”
Babe shrugged her shoulders with a fine assumption of indifference. “It can’t be that she’s engaged, after what you’ve said; so I don’t care much about knowing.”
“Wait till you see it.”
Babe was too proud to ask any more questions, but she lay awake for hours trying to guess what It could be. Meanwhile Betty Wales was dreaming wild dreams, at the climax of which the dashing Coach and Four ran over Jim Watson.