At this Landis drew herself erect. “That is just what I was about to say. A great deal of their fun will vanish when they discover that it is all one to us whether we get out or stay here. I’m about as well satisfied. My throat was a little husky anyway. Perhaps I would not have been able to make that high note. How mortified I should have been!”
She spoke in seeming sincerity. Mary Wilson eyed her suspiciously. She sighed. “Landis believes that we are what we make people believe we are. You would make a capital actress, Landis. The only fault you have is that you would always be playing to the gallery.”
Her hearers laughed, accepting the remark as a bit of pleasant chatter. Mary did not fully grasp how much truth her remarks contained. Landis alone appreciated the words. Her face flushed and she turned her head aside for an instant that the girls might not see she was hurt.
“I don’t know but that it is a good thing,” Mary rattled on. “We’re sure of an audience, at least. What shall we do now?”
“What can we do!” wailed a meek-looking little Senior from the darkest corner of the room. “There’s nothing except ask conundrums. I’ll begin. Why did we ever—?”
“What more do you want?” asked Landis, turning about quickly to face them. “I’ll begin. What goes around a—”
“Hush hush,” came a chorus of whispers. From the chapel below music could be heard. It was the Germania orchestra of twelve pieces from the city, to secure which the Seniors had heavily taxed themselves.
“All that music going to waste,” wailed the little figure from the dark corner.
“It’s not going to waste, dearly beloved,” came the response from Miss Bowman. “The Middlers will enjoy it even more than you would have done. They are not paying the bill.”
The instant the music ceased, the drop went up. Again a groan arose from the prisoners. They could see all that was enacted on the stage, yet could not hear the words.