Blank silence succeeded this declaration. Veronica was not in touch with the situation and therefore had nothing to say. Constance and Marjorie knew only too well that stolid Jerry would not yield to Mignon’s whim. This knowledge robbed them both of ready speech.
The sonorous voice of Colonel Dearborn raised in an address of welcome was borne to their ears as a timely bridge over the embarrassing situation.
“The Campfire has begun,” snapped Mignon. “I must find Geraldine.” She flaunted from the room, a disgruntled flash of yellow.
“I must go, too.” Marjorie walked to the open door. “I’ll see you both later. Are you going to stay for the dance, Ronny?”
“No.” Veronica shook her head. “Like Cinderella, I must flit away from the ball as soon as I have danced.” She breathed a faint sigh of regret, then smiled mockingly. “Such social pleasures are not for a poor servant girl.”
Marjorie left the dressing room with these words still in her ears. Taking up her position in the booth she forced herself to forget puzzling Veronica for the moment and gave herself over to listening to the speeches. She had missed the most of the old Colonel’s brief, soldier-like address, so she paid strict heed to those of Captain Baynes and Miss Archer.
When they had retired, to the sound of hearty applause from the overflowing gallery, the Weston High Glee Club lifted up their tuneful voices in the first number of the revue. Danny Seabrooke followed them with a clever juggling act. Marjorie’s heart beat high with love and pride as Connie stepped serenely onto the stage, with the quiet composure that so individualized her, and awaited the prelude to her song played by Professor Harmon. To Marjorie it seemed as though she had never heard Connie sing more sweetly. The song she had chosen was particularly beautiful and her clear, pure notes held a world of pathos that went straight to the heart. Abiding by Laurie’s mandate she refused to respond to an encore, though the audience clamored persistently for it.
Unknown to Marjorie, a curious bit of drama had preceded the dance by Veronica, to which she was impatiently looking forward. Lawrence Armitage had met Veronica when she entered the Armory, enveloped in a long black cloak, and courteously conducted her to the girls’ dressing room. It being his duty to call each act, he was kept busy between the two dressing rooms. As Constance was finishing her song, he hurried to the left-hand dressing room and rapped on the half-open door. From within he heard the sound of cheerful voices and light laughter. Muriel, Susan and Rita, the feminine half of the sextette which was to follow Veronica’s dance, had gathered there and were chatting gaily with the pretty dancer.
“Come,” called Muriel Harding.
Entering, Laurie’s eyes became suddenly riveted on Veronica. A perplexed frown sprang to his brow. He was again obsessed with the conviction that he had previously seen her in this very costume. His puzzlement deepened as he stepped to the door and held it open for her. Catching up a fold of her voluminous robe, she smiled and made him a saucy little curtsey of thanks. Only a few feet intervened between the door and the three steps leading up to the platform. A row of tall potted palms had been set on each side of it, so as to partially conceal the entrance and exit of each performer. The quaint curtsey of the black-garbed girl caused truant recollection to sweep over Laurie in a flood. “Now I know where I first saw you!” he exclaimed in a low, triumphant tone. Like a flash Veronica laid a warning finger to her lips. “Keep it a secret,” she breathed as she flitted by him. The next instant she had scurried up the three steps and onto the platform, leaving behind her a most amazed young man.