“Wha-a-t?” The angry swain’s voice had suddenly changed key. It had lowered in a mixture of amazed, disapproving conviction.
The utterance of that one amazed word acted upon Leslie like a sudden dash of cold water. She wheeled and swaggered on down the room with an air of elaborate unconcern. It was entirely make-believe. Her heart was thumping with dismay. She had spoken after having vowed within herself that whatever might happen at the romp she would remain mute. More, she was afraid she had been recognized by the student whom she had unwittingly tripped up with her umbrella. Something in those higher pitched tones had sounded familiar. She could not then remember, however, of whom they reminded her.
She had turned away from the quarrel just in time. Attracted by the commotion at that part of the gymnasium more than one pair of dancers had steered toward the accident center. Some of these now headed Leslie off in her perturbed journey down the room. They collected about her with mischievous intent, hemming her in and calling out to her.
“Such a pretty boy!” “Hello, April smiles!” “Wait a minute, puddeny-woodeny!” “I’m crazy about you!” were some of the pleasantries hurled at her. Under other circumstances Leslie would have laughed at the extravagances. Now she was growing worried for her own security from identification. She was now in precisely the situation against which Doris had warned her. Suppose the call to unmask were to come just then? She resolved desperately that, unheeding it, she would bolt for the door.
Meanwhile the tripped-up rustic was sputtering to his dainty partner in a manner which indicated trouble to come for Leslie.
“I wouldn’t stand such insolence from another student, much less from an intruder,” Julia Peyton was saying wrathfully. “I wouldn’t—”
“Try to forget the matter, Miss Peyton,” urged a soft voice.
“I shan’t. Who are you, and how do you happen to know me?” demanded Julia rudely. “You don’t know who that mask is. I do. She has no invitation or right to be here tonight. It’s against all Hamilton tradition. Doris Monroe is to blame for this outrage. She has helped that horrid Miss Ca—”
“I am Miss Dean, Miss Peyton,” came the interruption, low, but vibrating with sternness. “You will please not mention the name you were going to say.”
“I’ll do as I please about that. I’ll do more. I’ll expose that Miss Cairns before she has a chance to leave here. I know who’s to blow the whistle for unmasking. She is a sophie friend of mine. I’ll ask her to blow it now. Then we’ll see what Miss Cairns will do.”