“Oh, woe is me! I may wave—not too near a face, or I may wag not too near a line, but to shoot baskets with my windmills—Jane dear, help me out and make it dribbles. I adore dribbles.” Drusilla was now bouncing up and down with the auto motion, “doing the short hills” in the famous on high record of the well-tried Wellington seven passenger. “Our chauffeur, one Thomas, has little regard for basketball conditions,” Judith remarked. “Just then he registered a bumper on my pet ankle.” “But Tom is out to get there,” Jane insisted. “He knows we play at three thirty, and I have promised he can see the game.” “What! A man see us play!” screamed Clarisse Bradley. “Pray why not?” asked Jane. “Are we not good enough players?” “Oh, yes, but——” “But the bloomers, and things, eh, Clare?” joked Norma Travers. “To my overstrained mind, it seems really pathetic that we can or have to call in the very chauffeur to view the exhibition—I mean the game,” she corrected archly. “Yes, indeed. I think we should have a real public game, with everyone invited,” Jane declared. “Here we are! Now everyone must take care of her own traps. We don’t want the Breslins criticising our personal deportment, or our practical application of domestic science.” Tumbling out of the cars the Wellingtons and their guests were met and welcomed by the Breslins at the great gate, with its inviting arch leading into the beautiful grounds surrounding the exclusive school, variously designated as seminary and college. That a conflict was imminent between the guests and their hosts seemed difficult to realize, such giggling, chattering and such volumes of sounds, without words, as were charged and surcharged, through the atmosphere. “Some day our psychologists will investigate the mysteries of school girl noise,” predicted Mrs. Weatherbee to Miss Rutledge, “and I expect the finding will be of immense interest to those who have to listen to the noise and keep out of the fun.” “All here?” called Jane. “Here! here!” came the response. Then the choristers, or glee club, or cheering squad, any of which would have denied the accusation, took up that old nonsense: “We’re here, because we’re here, because we hate to go away: Oh, Breslin fine, and Wellington, get ready for the fray!” “A wonderful picture,” commented the local scribe, a promising young woman, who did the press work for the schools, and incidentally gained a broader education outside, than was allowed inside the big stone walls. “Yes, I like the big red ties,” assisted Miss Talmadge, to whom the press girl had attached herself. Isobel Talmadge knew everybody, and always said things good enough to print. “And the hunters’ green of our girls,” said Constance Lipton loyally, “makes such a refreshing change from the inevitable blue or khaki. I think our girls’ suits practically attractive.” That also was sure to get in the paper.