Soeur Séraphine kissed her hand to Honor, and sat down amid tumultuous applause.
“Speech!” cried Patricia. “Speech!” cried all the girls, echoing the cry in varying shades of English; all save Maria Patterson, who still sat, an image of gloom, staring at her plate.
Blushing and tearful, Honor rose.
“Thank you! oh, thank you all!” she cried. “I am so—so glad to see you all again. Dear Madame, dear Sister, you are perfectly angelic to give me this lovely party. I—I can’t say anything but thank you, but I do, with all my heart!”
She could at least say this. She was glad to see them, all the dear good friends. Not to come back—no! no! to say that would be telling a lie; but to see the kind, friendly faces, to hear the welcoming voices—of course she was glad! she would be a wicked, wicked girl if she were not.
At last the feast was over, and after grace and réverénces, the girls swept out laughing and chattering, into the garden. Here they surrounded Honor, seizing her hands, pulling her this way and that, all talking at once.
“This way, Honor! come with me!”
“À moi, Moriole! I have a thousand things to say to thee. Ah! for example, Loulou, cease thy pushing, little imbecile!”
“There’s no particular sense in smothering Honor to death!” drawled Patricia. “I prefer her alive myself. Sit down here on the bench, Moriole! I’ll keep them off you with this rake.”
Honor sat down, out of breath, and looked round. Stephanie, Patricia, Rose Marie, Vivette,—were they all here? No!