Having committed themselves to the unenviable duty of censorship, neither Marjorie nor Jerry had any intention of wavering in the performance of it. The following Monday they met and agreed to pay Mignon a call that evening. They also agreed not to announce to her beforehand their purposed visit to her. It would be wisest to hazard the chance of finding her at home.
Their hearts beat a trifle faster, however, when at eight o’clock that evening they proceeded up the wide stone walk leading to the La Salles’ veranda. In just what fashion Mignon, were she at home, would receive the counsel they had decided must be imparted to her, was something which they could not foretell.
“Br-rr!” shivered Jerry as Marjorie pressed the electric bell. “I hope she isn’t at home.”
“I don’t.” Marjorie spoke firmly. “I’d rather see her to-night and have it over with.”
The opening of the door by a maid cut short further conversation between them. She ushered them into the drawing room with the information that “Miss Mignon” was at home. Inviting them to be seated, she disappeared to acquaint the French girl with their arrival.
Hardly had they seated themselves when the sound of Mignon’s voice raised in sharp question floated down to them from the head of the wide hall staircase. Followed the patter of light descending feet, announcing to them that the dread moment was approaching.
“Good evening.” Mignon’s black brows lifted themselves ironically as she beheld her unexpected callers. “This is really a surprise!” Her elfish eyes roved challengingly from one girl to the other.
“Good evening, Mignon.” Marjorie’s calm salutation betrayed nothing of her inner trepidation.
“How are you, Mignon?” was all Jerry said. She, too, had sensed hostility in her hostess’ satirical exclamation.
“I was taking a look at my French lesson for to-morrow when I heard the door-bell. French, of course, is very easy for me. I need hardly to glance at a lesson before I know it.” Mignon’s sharp chin raised itself a trifle as she made this boast.