“Very many times,” continued Helen in even tones, “I would have told you about that detestable girl—she who goes about at my heels, and listens at my door, until my dear roommate, Dicky Ripple, told Mrs. Weatherbee all about it.” “Dicky told Mrs. Weatherbee about whom?” asked Jane in surprise. “I hate the name too much to utter it. To-night you must pardon me, my dear Jane, but I am indignant, and I feel the Podonsky power breaking in all my veins.” An eloquent gesture, two arms thrust out with power unmistakable, accompanied this assertion. Surely, Helen was betraying a new attribute—she was dramatically indignant! Something had aroused her slumbering pride, something had awakened her dormant lineal glory. Helen Powderly was not at the moment Helka Podonsky. It was a new Helka, all Polish, all artist, all self confident, that confronted Jane. “Oh, you mean Marian Seaton?” Jane was glad to insert. “I have had so much trouble from that girl, Helen dear, that I am now immune, that is, it no longer gives sorrow or worry. I just expect it like bad storms and other calamities.” “But when a girl is a sneak, when she makes trouble, so one cannot go to sleep, when she hisses into other girls’ ears such things as are—lies—then, what would you do?” “She has done all of that to me, Helen. My first year here was a nightmare, in spots,” and Jane tried to inject a little mirth into the fast-growing seriousness of the conversation. “But I got over it (she might have said ‘rose above it,’ but Jane was humble). Yes, Helen, I did suffer just as you have described, and now you see the other girls are my friends, and she is losing all her companions.” “For you, yes, that is all good. You are the president of our class, and much loved, much honored, Jane Allen. But for Helen Powderly, who has a wrong name, who got to college by tricks, who is perhaps some spy! Ugh! It is too much!” That surely was foreign. No American girl could indulge in that sort of melodrama, and hope to retain her reputation as a well-bred member of society. It was too impassioned, too effusive, too altogether out of harmony. Yet Jane was secretly admitting it was sincere! It rang true! And it was gloriously frank! She admired the spirit, if she did somewhat discount the tone of voice. “Now, Helen dear, I am sure you are just a little bit mistaken. Even the hateful Marian would not do such injustice as to pile all that dishonor on your pretty head. Don’t you think something has made your nerves—too tight, and they hurt the way you are stretching them?” Jane realized this was a weak simile, but it was not easy to give Helen a clear understanding always, and the intricacies of this conversation taxed even Jane’s ready flow of speech.