“That’s just it.” Rowena clutched at this providential straw, which Mignon had unwittingly cast to her. “I am trying to make it up to you. I won’t bother you any more now. But I hope——” she paused significantly.
“You may walk to school with me,” graciously permitted Mignon. The old fascination of Rowena’s lawlessness was beginning to steal over her.
“Thank you.” Rowena spoke humbly. Inwardly she was jubilant. She was obliged to endure these stupid persons, but they were all her pawns, willed to move about at her dictation.
After she had left Rowena in the corridor, Mignon indulged in sober speculation. There was more to the affair than appeared on the surface. Formerly she would have entered into it with avidity. Now she was bound to respect her father’s mandate or be packed off to a convent school. She alone knew positively that recent association with Marjorie and her chums had not changed her. But she must make a pretense at keeping up an appearance of amiable docility. Rowena’s words still sounded in her ears like a clarion call to battle. But she was resolved to do nothing rash. She would wait and see before accepting the chance to play on the junior team. It was lucky that she need not lend her presence to the meeting that afternoon.
When at four o’clock Ellen Seymour put the matter of postponement to five impassive-faced girls, she was not greatly surprised to listen to their unanimous refusal to consider the proposal. One and all they stolidly set themselves against it.
“You forget that the juniors treated you very nicely when your team met with misfortune,” reminded Ellen gravely. She had vowed within herself that she would not lose her temper.
This reminder brought stubborn replies of, “That was different,” and “They have plenty of equally good players to draw from.”
In the midst of the discussion, Miss Davis appeared on the scene. Ellen understood only too well what that meant. “What seems to be the matter here?” she asked. “Are you discussing the question of postponing the game?”
Rowena cast a sidelong glance of triumph toward Nellie Simmons, which said: “What did I tell you?”
“We are,” was Ellen’s crisp return. “The game must be postponed.”