“Oh, Mademoiselle!” Jacquette reproached her. “You think he did it!”
“There is not one particle of doubt, my child. When he was in my French class, in this very room, two years ago, I took from him this same picture of the French lady saying ‘lambkin.’ No one else could have reproduced it so perfectly. But he was never a sneak in those days, and I cannot believe now, that he realises how his refusal to confess turns suspicion upon an innocent party.”
“What innocent party? Not Quis? Does anyone think Quis did it?”
Mademoiselle stared blankly. “Dearie!” she said at last. “Honey! My little Willard! Your cousin Marquis did it!”
“Quis did it! And then took credit for keeping still because it would be dishonourable to tell! And let the class cheer him—and made Bobs all this trouble. Mademoiselle! he couldn’t! He has too much conscience.”
“Conscience; ah, but he was not using Marquis Granville’s conscience when he did this. He was governed by his fraternity conscience—a vastly different thing from the individual conscience, dearie. Whatever happened, he must not bring discredit on his Beta Sigma fraternity, don’t you see? I, myself, know one dear little child with golden braids who has been writing English themes for another member of her sorority, just because she has the mistaken idea that her vow of sisterhood requires that dishonest act. But she was governed by her sorority conscience when she did it.”
Jacquette flushed scarlet. She had not dreamed that anyone outside of the sorority knew how much she was helping Mamie Coolidge with her English. “Mademoiselle, you know every single thing we do!” she exclaimed.
“Not everything, honey, but more than you guess. You can fool the pretty, young teachers, but the little old French ladies with green eyes, they know—they know!” She shook her head solemnly, but the dimples came in her cheeks, and her eyes twinkled.
“You’re not old, and your eyes aren’t green!” Jacquette cried, impulsively. “You’re perfectly darling! And oh—I do believe you’re right about Quis. I see it all.”
“There’s no doubt of it, my chicken,” Mademoiselle concluded, beginning to put away the books and papers on her desk. “Now you are to dismiss from your mind all the little Quisses and all the little Bobses, and not worry about them any more. I, myself, will write to that dear little wretch in New York. You shall give me his address. He will be sorry, for I know he has not meant to make so much trouble, and he will confess at once. You will see.