“Rah, rah, rah, for the college beauty!” proposed someone. The cheers were given with a will. Doris smiled and bowed her thanks, looking as lovely as a veritable fairy-tale princess. The audience could no more help liking her for her beauty than they could help succumbing to Marjorie’s charm.
Leslie’s speech began in French. She made two or three droll remarks in the language, accompanying them by truly Gallic gestures of her hands and shrugs of her shoulders. She was a French scholar, having spoken it from early childhood. Ripples of laughter from her listeners testified as to their admiration for her cleverness.
Suddenly she dropped into English with a change of tone that brought forth a kind of united gasp from the rows of girls. “And now the show is over, and the play is played out,” she said in a steady, resolute tone that somehow carried with it an unspoken determination toward courage of the true sort. “I have read your petition. I have read the list written by Dulcie Vale. Both are a waste of paper. You can neither make nor mar me. I am the only one to do either. I know this now. I learned it by failing to accomplish such injustices against others as those you have lately framed against me. Whatever you may have heard of me belongs to the past; not the present. I am here to do a certain thing which I have promised myself shall be done. I shall continue to live at the Hall because Miss Remson wishes me to do so. But for all I did when I was at Hamilton nearly three years ago which was against tradition and honor I am reaping in this one respect. To live at Wayland Hall is the greatest punishment for me that could be devised. So my advice to you tonight is to leave me to work out my own salvation. I promise not to trouble you.” With a grave inclination of the head Leslie stepped back beside Marjorie. Marjorie put out an arm and dropped it affectionately about Leslie’s waist.
“I think it’s too bad; shameful in us!” A pretty brown-eyed young woman had sprung to her feet with the contrite cry. “How could we have been so—so spitefully foolish? I shall cross my name off that petition. Miss Remson won’t you please destroy both it and that list? How many are with me in this?” She waved a rallying hand to the buzzing company.
“I am. And I.” A babel of “I’s” was heard.
Julia Peyton jumped up to defend the losing fight. Her voice was drowned in the noise. Mildred Ferguson tried to make herself heard and met with defeat.
Muriel had forsaken her duties as showman and was animatedly talking to two or three girls nearest to where she stood. Doris had come up on Leslie’s other side and had also put an arm around Leslie. Miss Remson sat watching the noisy company, a bright smile on her thin, kind face.
Muriel stepped up to her and asked an eager question. Miss Remson handed her a thin packet of folded papers. Muriel took them, then faced the company. She waved them energetically in air until she had attracted general attention to herself.
“This is my license to go into the show business,” she cried laughingly. “I find I shall be too busy from now on to need it. Is there anyone here who would like to have it?”
“No, no, no!” came the emphatic protest. “Burn it up. Tear it up. Lose it in the furnace!” and plenty of other suggestions answered her mischievous inquiry.