“Oui, Ma-de-moi-selle Warren.”
There was something comic in the picture presented. The little girls stood at rigid attention and recited their trite phrases, keeping diplomatically to the plain oui or non, and so added to the glory of “The Misses Warren’s French and English School for Young Ladies.” Here was the echo far off in America of a one-time supremacy of French as the language of the upper classes of Europe. Tag-rags of the language lingered for awhile in novels, until it finally died out and was deposited in the back pages of the old Webster dictionary, where the proletariat may still find the meaning of such recondite phrases as “entre nous,” and “on dit.”
“I wish you to know one of our new girls,” Miss Warren would say occasionally after the French pass-words had been given and returned. “This is Miss Gorgas Levering.”
“We welcome you to our school,” the well drilled young ladies would recite, step two steps forward, shake hands like a drill sergeant, bow and retire to a room set apart for assembly.
More “Bon jours” went on until about thirty girls, ranging from ten to eighteen, had assembled. Gorgas was ushered in with the others and given a seat. A bell was tapped somewhere in the house; the polite unnatural murmur hushed. Another bell tapped; the girls rose and stood waiting for the customary prayer, but a clatter in the hall turned heads and set very natural tongues a-wagging. Two or three smart taps on the bell brought only partial order. A heavy voice in the hallway caused smiles of recognition.
“Am I late again?” it cried impatiently.
The words of one of the teachers could not be heard, but the reply of the late-comer was quite clear.
“Darn it, I’m always late!” the heavy voice boomed out. “Your old clock’s wrong. I know I started in plenty of time this morning.”
“Bea Wilcox!” The name was uttered aloud by several excited girls. Miss Warren called the group smartly to attention and requested Miss Lewis to see that proper care was taken of the unruly late-comer, but while heads turned to the front dutifully and silence came, the joyful wreaths on the faces were not so easily ordered away. Bea Wilcox was the one rift in the morning’s respectable gloom.
“I’m sorry, Miss Warren,” Bea exclaimed comfortingly as she tore off her gloves and took her place in assembly. “I tried to get here, honest I did. Your clock’s awful fast.”