ee' either," interposed Emma innocently.

"The Briggs-Dean rapid-fire conversation team in an entirely new line of
specialties," proclaimed Sara Emerson. "Secure front seats for the
performance."

"There isn't going to be any performance," flung back Emma. "This is
merely a friendly chat, but it ends here and now. I don't propose to
court publicity. Come on, Sherlock, let us hie us to the lemonade bowl
away from this madding crowd."

Sherlock offered his free arm--his memoirs were securely tucked under
the other--and strolled nonchalantly toward the punch bowl, looking as
though he were towing an animated rag-bag.

"Doesn't Emma Dean look too ridiculous for words?" laughed Arline Thayer
to Grace.

"'Never too late to mend,'" quoted Grace. "I wonder how she ever
happened to hit upon the idea. She is a delightful girl, isn't she?"

"Emma Dean? One of the nicest girls at Overton." Arline spoke with
enthusiasm. "When I came to Morton House as a freshman, Emma was there,
too. I had the most appalling case of the blues, for I didn't for one
moment believe that I should ever like college. Emma had the next room
to mine. She was so cheerful and said such funny things that I forgot
all about my blues."

"I never knew she had lived at Morton House," said Grace in surprise.

"She was there just two weeks," continued Arline. "Then a freshman, who
was an old friend of the Dean family, wanted Emma to room with her at
Wayne Hall, and so she left Morton House and has been at the Hall ever
since."

"Your loss was our gain," replied Grace. "We couldn't do without Emma at
Wayne Hall. She and Elfreda are the life of the house."

Arline smiled to herself. Elfreda and Emma might fill their own
particular niches in Wayne Hall, but there was only one Grace Harlowe.
"How I shall miss you, Grace," she said with sudden irrelevance to the
subject of Emma. "I shall miss you more than any other girl in college,
except Ruth, when I go to New York for good and all."

"I forbid you to mention the subject," cried Grace, her fine face
clouding. "We mustn't even think of it. Oh, listen, Arline! The
orchestra has begun that Strauss waltz I like so well. I'm going to put
these clumsy old andirons over in the corner; then we'll dance and
forget that we are seniors and must pay the penalty."

It was almost twelve o'clock when the Famous Fiction dance came to a
triumphant end, and the illustrious book heroes and heroines wended
their midnight wa