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206 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN

the design book would call a pink sprig. As a matter of fact I will tell you confidentially
that there were a number of sprigs. I know, because I riveted my eyes on the sprigs till
they fairly burned into my brain. I was even more simply attired in an almost unbelievably
dirty white linen Peter Thomson, a relic of my childhood. Where Delano and Margaret
Friend and Betty Taylor went I couldn’t say, I only remember clinging to Leila and looking
at the pink sprig as we made our way across the campus, which is a large campus. I have
no doubt 1908 enjoyed showing their guests a little local colour, but we didn’t stop to see.

It wasn’t any worse than the other garden parties, however. The way they affected
me was to impress upon me that I had no friends, in college or out. It wasn’t just that I
had no beaux. Now Esther had beaux and I suspect they were at least as large a factor as
the band in her enjoyment of the occasion. But I had no friends whatever. Everyone
I knew had friends, and was always walking and talking with them, but I was always all
alone. I was so alone I was conspicuous. I couldn't have been more conspicuous if I had
had no clothes on at all, in fact it gave me much the same feeling I have when I dream
I have no clothes on. As a matter of fact I generally had what seemed a very good kind of
clothes on; but it didn’t matter what they were I always took a dislike to them after I had
worn them to a garden party.

Last June, having sent out over a hundred invitations, I finally got a guest to come,
it was my mother. I guess I was pretty proud of having a guest all my own, and as a good
many people spoke to her, even when I was with her, I was feeling reasonably popular for
a while. Finally, however, even she got away from me. The only person who would
speak to me personally was the third assistant librarian, who followed me about quite
flatteringly for some time to tell me that if all eight books were not in by five-thirty I
couldn't get my degree the next day. As it was then five-fifteen, and the books had been
lost for months, I had to borrow enough money to buy all eight of them outright. It was
annoying to think how long I had been paying fines on them, but after all the incident helped
to pass the time, created some excitement, and afforded a little human intercourse.

Sometimes I went down to the Denbigh receiving ground, where I belonged, with the
starved but alluring hope that a surprise might be awaiting me in the shape of a guest,
or even half a guest; and also to show people what flowers I belonged with. But the large
unfriendly looking group who were sitting on Virginia’s and my flowers, or rampaging
through them or pulling them down to see whether or not they grew on that oak tree, always
seemed to regard me as an intruder, and I went meekly away alone, grateful, in my uncom-
plaining Christian little way, that I was carrying my best orchids.