“Of course you would!” Mrs. Damian swooped like a hawk. “You have not red hair; and you are a mouse. A trained and intelligent mouse—no! I have it! You are a mongoose, Folly. Exactly! There is no difference. ‘The Wild Ass and the Mongoose, an Indian Fable.’ What is the plural of mongoose?”
“Mongooses!” replied Miss Folly promptly.
“Right! My former Affliction—I should say companion—would persist in saying ‘mongeese.’ I corrected her seventeen times; the eighteenth time I threw a sofa-pillow at her, and she left. Egypt was glad at her departing. As I was saying, Mongoose, you have not red hair, nor the dramatic temperament. This child has both. Therefore I decide on the Blaze of Glory. Bring pencil and paper, and we will make a list of the fireworks.”
So it came to pass that the day after the final examinations, when the girls were packing their trunks and exchanging last tokens and protestations of affection, they were told that they were all invited to the Hotel Royal, to spend the evening with Mrs. Damian.
“And with Honor, naturally!” said Soeur Séraphine. “Our Moriole has already gone to join her venerable relative. Mrs. Damian most kindly sends carriages for us at a quarter before seven o’clock precisely; be ready, my children!”
Honor had gone an hour before, after a talk with Madame Madeleine which she was to remember as long as she lived. The dear lady might have been parting with her own child, so tender was she, so full of affectionate solicitude. She repeated again and again her injunctions; to be good, to be happy; to think sometimes of the friends who loved her.
“Happy?” said poor Honor. “I will try to be good, dear Madame; I will be cheerful, because I have promised; but—happy? I shall never be happy again; never, never, never!”
