At this moment Miss Pinkett and Gwendoline entered. The Beauty's face was shining with soap.
"What were you doing in your room, young ladies?" asked Miss Reeves gravely.
"I suppose, madam, Miss Beecham has been telling," replied Miss Pinkett.
"No, we are waiting for her answer to the question I have just put to you."
Meg was conscious of every eye being turned upon her—Miss Reeves sternly questioning, Miss Pinkett coldly supercilious, Gwendoline, with pursed lips, imploring. She stood up, her little red lips closed tightly, her heart fiercely divided between a desire for vengeance and a sense of loyalty. After a pause she said:
"They called me into the room to make fun of a portrait of my mother which I had drawn."
A murmur of comical disappointment from the girls round the table, an expression of relief on the faces of the two culprits, greeted this answer.
"It was such an absurd portrait, madam," said Miss Pinkett in an explanatory tone; "a lady suffering from the mumps wearing a wreath of roses."
A titter went round the table.
"Hush!" said Miss Reeves seriously. "It is unkind to laugh at the child. Sit down, young ladies."