“Girls,” she asked abruptly, “what’s the matter with Maria Patterson?”
Silence. The girls all looked at each other; then they looked at Patricia. No one except Honor was very fond of Patricia; her tongue was too biting, and she was too openly contemptuous of them all—still excepting La Moriole; but they admired as much as they feared her, and were accustomed to follow her lead, even Stephanie, who detested her.
Patricia now looked up with a peculiar smile that Honor knew well, and gave a little shrug of her graceful shoulders.
“Maria Patterson? My dear, she has ceased to exist, for us. As to what is the matter with her”—another shrug. “What does it matter what is the matter with her? Pouf! I blow her away. Tell us about your exile, child! we are all dying to hear.”
“Not till I know about Maria!” Honor’s tone was resolute; she was not in the least afraid of Patricia.
“And why this sudden interest in Maria Patterson, if I may ask?” Patricia was still smiling in the way Honor knew and did not like. “She never was your heart’s own that I know of, chérie. What, I say, does it matter about her? We are all happy, aren’t we?”
“Voyons, Patricia! tell her!” said Vivette. “We know our Moriole. When her face sets in that manner, she is Gibraltar in person. If we want to hear anything, we must first tell; that sees itself.”
“Tell yourself, then!” Patricia yawned delicately. “The subject fails to interest me.”
Honor turned to Vivette, whose honest face was pleasanter to look on at this moment than that of the school beauty.
“Marie is—avay!” said Vivette. “She is vat you call in Cov-en-tri. There are six days, we speak her not, we look her not.”