“I don’t see how I can!” said Honor to herself, as she passed out, “but I must!” she added, “and so I will!”
This sensible resolve she communicated to the other girls, as they clustered round her under the trumpet vine. Patricia was walking by herself at the other end of the garden, pacing up and down in a sober, business-like way.
“How can we?” cried one and another. “Maria made no difference one way or another: but Patricia—it will be like losing you over again, Moriole!”
“We just plain have to!” said Honor stoutly. “That’s all there is about it. And mind you be good to Maria, girls! It’s the least you can do, after treating her so horribly. Poor thing! she is really sick this morning, so our Sister made her stay in bed; but she will be down to dinner, and I say, let’s all try to make her forget about it.”
All agreed, though without any special enthusiasm. They were ashamed of the part they had played, but after all, Maria was Maria.
“Tiens, la Moriole!” It was Jacqueline de la Tour de Provence who spoke, in her languid, graceful drawl. “Why this sudden interest in Maria,—for thee, I mean? Thou hast never shown it before. She is bourgeoise to a degree! She cannot belong to even the lowest order of noblesse!”
“We are Americans!” said Honor shortly. “We have no noblesse. And if we had—how about noblesse oblige, Jacqueline?”
Jacqueline blushed slightly, and murmured something about her House; but it was noticed that she was moderately civil to Maria, when the latter, still depressed, and sniffing at intervals, appeared at dinner.
“But, Maria,” cried Honor, dragging her into a corner after dinner, “you simply must buck up! You can’t go round cringing and sniffing like—like a poodle that’s just been shaved! Hold up your head! Look them in the eye! Show them that you are as good as they are!”
“But I am not!” said poor Maria, who did seem to be made of putty, as Patricia once said, and poor putty at that.