Her energetic counsel brought the outraged belligerents into a knowledge of where they were. Gradually they subsided into threatening murmurs that ended in a much-needed but ominous quiet.
“Mignon, you are the one to be ashamed.” Muriel bent severe eyes on the storm-swept girl, who now sat with elbows propped upon the table, glaring sullenly at her equally sulky opponents. “Veronica Browning is a sweet, delightful, well-bred girl. I’m sorry I can’t say the same of you. If you don’t care to be in the same club with her, you know what you can do. You’ve caused us all to disgrace ourselves for the moment by quarreling with you. I’m going to say what I started to say when you began this fuss. You will please not interrupt me again.”
“I will if I choose,” flung back Mignon. “You’d be only too glad to have me resign from the club. Well, I don’t intend to do it until I get ready. I’ve been a good treasurer and you can’t complain of me. If you——”
Muriel turned a deliberate back on the irate speaker. With dignified composure she again stated: “It has been regularly moved and seconded that Veronica Browning be admitted into membership of the Lookout Club. Those in favor, please rise; contrary remain seated.”
Ten determined girls were on their feet before Muriel had finished.
“No, no, no!” objected Mignon at the top of her voice.
“Carried.” Muriel still kept an uncompromising back toward Mignon.
“I won’t stand it!” Rising, Mignon seized her book and took a step or two toward the door. Of a sudden she paused, as though clutched by an invisible hand. Backing toward her chair she sat down, a curious expression of malevolent resolve in her elfish eyes. Somewhat ashamed of their own untimely outburst, her fellow members found themselves more inclined toward pity than resentment. Though they cherished no liking for their lawless companion, they were disposed to regard her display of temper as that of an obstreperous child, allowed too long to have its own way.
With the admission of Veronica to the club the business part of the meeting closed, greatly to the relief of all concerned. Immediately afterward, Mignon stalked haughtily from the living room, without a word to anyone. Darting up the stairs to the room which Muriel had reserved for her guests’ use, she fairly flung herself into her coat and jammed her fur cap down upon her black curls. Down the stairs she sped and out of the house, announcing her departure by a reverberating slam of the front door.
Divining her intention, Susan Atwell had followed her to the stairs, determined to do her duty as hostess. When halfway up the flight, Mignon had reappeared at the head of the staircase, descending with a hurricane rush that precluded remark on Susan’s part. Returning to the living room she asked Muriel crossly: “What are we to do with her?”