Honor would never acknowledge that the Feast of Departure surpassed the Fête de Retour at the Pension, but Soeur Séraphine declared she had never seen anything so charming. Mrs. Damian nodded, well pleased. It was a feast of birds, she explained; of orioles, as nearly as Miss Folly could make it with crêpe paper and black pins. Beside each plate stood a little black and orange bird, holding a card in his bill. The soup was in swan-shaped cups, the long necks curving to form the handles.
“It should be birds’ nest soup, of course,” said the hostess, “but there were no nests in the market.”
The potato balls that accompanied the roast duck were bird-shaped, too, golden-brown ducklings, with peppercorn eyes. And when it came to the dessert—oh! oh! could it be possible? Who ever saw a mother hen of strawberry ice-cream, with pink and white chickens clustering round her? Long before this point was reached, the girls’ tongues were loosened, and they were chattering like a flock of sparrows.
When it came to “second helps,” Mrs. Damian nodded to Honor, who slipped quietly out and returned, bringing the “tokens.” She went round the table, with a kiss and a murmured word for each girl as she clasped the chain round her neck. Her eyes were bright with tears, but she would not let them fall. Mrs. Damian watched her keenly, and nodded to herself well pleased. The child was thoroughbred; no danger of a scene!
As the girls burst into exclamations of wonder and delight, Honor slipped out again, in obedience to a signal from Miss Folly, who without a word led her into the tissue-paper room. On the bed lay a traveling costume of russet wool, tasteful and simple; beside it the prettiest of hats to match. Gloves, belt, shoes of russet suède; nothing was wanting.
“Dress yourself quickly,” said Miss Folly. “I must go and help Mrs. Damian. Don’t stop to think! Time for that afterwards. You have twenty minutes!”
She vanished. Honor never could remember how she got through those twenty minutes. She only knew that before they were over, she was ready, and stood trembling in every limb, unable, it seemed to her, to speak or move. The door opened; there stood Mrs. Damian, Miss Folly behind her, both dressed for traveling.
“Good!” said Mrs. Damian. “You will make a traveler! Come!”
She took Honor’s hand in her firm, cool grasp, and led her back to the dining room. The girls were deep in the mysteries of costume crackers, putting on paper caps and bonnets, shrieking with laughter. At sight of the three, they sprang up in amazement.
“Oh!” cried Stephanie. “Oh, Moriole! No! no! It cannot be. You do not leave us!”