“You really have the most chubby inspirations, Ray,” burbled Fauvette. “You’re an absolute mascot!”
The idea of posing as the Swamp Angel appealed to Fauvette. She was conscious that she looked the part. She fingered her fluffy flaxen curls caressingly, and resolved to wear a blue cotton dress for the next day or two, in case there was a chance of the expedition. In imagination she was already photographing rare birds and shooting villains with revolvers, and looking her best through it all.
“I wish I knew how to mix iced drinks,” she sighed regretfully. “One can’t get even the ice 42 over here, not to speak of the bits of cherry and lemon and grape and pineapple that the Angel used for Freckles. Girls in America have a far better time than we have.”
“Cheero! We’ll get a little fun, you’ll see, if we can only circumvent the Wasp.”
It was not a remarkably easy matter to leave the premises unobserved. Monitresses had a tiresome habit of hanging about in places where they were not wanted; Mademoiselle made herself far too conspicuous, and Miss Gibbs seemed everywhere. The chums decided that a too great attention to duty can degenerate into a fault.
“It’s what Miss Beasley said in the Scripture lesson,” declared Raymonde. “Economy over-done turns into parsimony, liberality into extravagance, self-respect into pride. Gibbie’s over-stepping the mark, and letting responsibility run to fussiness.”
It is hardly possible to tackle a mistress and convince her of her faults, so Miss Gibbs’s pharisaical tendencies went unchecked. Evidently the only possible method was to dodge her. Whether her suspicions were aroused it is impossible to say, but for several days she neglected her attic sanctum and pervaded the garden during recreation hours.
Raymonde and Fauvette lay low, and toiled with an amazing spurt of industry at osier-weaving.
“You’ve each nearly finished a basket,” said Miss Gibbs approvingly.
“Yes, if we go on working hard this afternoon I think we shall finish them,” replied Raymonde craftily.