Then came a long, restful Sunday, and, by the time Jacquette started for school Monday morning, the world had begun to wear its natural colour. The sorority girls gathered around her effusively, and, when she went to her desk, she found a beautiful bunch of violets, bearing the message, “With the love of your Sigma Pi sisters.”
Up to that instant, Jacquette had been secretly triumphing over the way she had brought the girls to their knees, but those words on the card went through her vanity straight to her heart, and her eyes were suspiciously shiny as she turned to smile her thanks at two Sigma Pi sisters who sat near. Then she heard the voice of Mademoiselle, summoning her to the desk.
“Dearie,” said the little Frenchwoman, in a sorry tone, “you are wanted in the office, directly.”
“Why, Mademoiselle! I haven’t done anything!” Jacquette protested, and her head went up in a gesture that looked like defiance, though Mademoiselle, who loved her, knew that it was not.
“Wait, honey. Listen to me. Mr. Pierce is there with Mr. Branch and he is very angry about the way his little girl was treated on Saturday. She might have been crippled for life, or even killed, you know. It is a mercy that she was not. They will ask you questions, and, as I tell you, he is very angry. People who are angry do not choose their words. But you—will you remember one little thing? This: Between the extremes of servility and impertinence, there lies a golden mean called courtesy. Go, dearie.”
As Jacquette went up the stairs, she knew that Sigma Pi was in trouble. The message of the violets was warm in her heart. Surely, this was no time to desert the girls! Winifred Pierce’s father was a detestable sort of man, anyway, that was plain, and her head went up at the thought. Then she remembered Mademoiselle’s warning.
It was a long interview. Jacquette was pale when she came back to the study-room. She took her books and went to her algebra recitation without a glance at anyone. The Sigma Pi girls were in a flutter of anxiety, but there was nothing to do but wait.
Presently, Mademoiselle was called to the office, herself. Then she came back and sat at her desk in a brown study. At last she looked up and asked Mamie Coolidge and Flo Burton to step out into the hall with her.
As the door closed behind the three, she said, abruptly, “My chickens, tell me who was with the little Pierce at the time of her accident, Saturday?”
The girls looked at each other. Mamie spoke first. “I was, for one,” she answered.