“Gloria Doane, I won’t have you getting such foolish notions in your pretty head,” interrupted Trixy. “If folks don’t know what you and your dad have done for Hazel and her folks, it is only because you are both too high principled to let it be known.” Trix’s eyes were now flashing and her open defense of Gloria was just what any one knowing Beatrix Travers would have expected.
Gloria smiled cynically. “Just the same, Trix, those girls have no use for the cousin Hazel has told them all about. Not that I mind, really, for I have all I care for, but somehow—Oh, what’s the use?” she broke off sullenly.
“Rudeness is the meanest sort of cut, always,” took up a new voice just as quiet Mary Mears glided up to the little party, from behind the hedge that outlined the path.
“Oh, hello, Mary!” greeted Pat. “Come along and join the wake. You’re welcome,” and she made a place on the big low cut stump.
“I always thought boarding school was composed of sets, little clicques, you know,” continued Mary, “now I’m sure of it. Of course, I’m on the very outer rim——”
“Nothing of the sort,” spoke up Trixy with spirit. “If we care to we may, very easily, have a better, if not bigger, crowd than Jean Engle has. I hate to start things, but as Pat says, there’s no use standing still and applauding their efforts. What do you say, Mary? Shall we organize?”
“I’d love to, but——”
“Now forget the ‘buts’ and let’s!” exclaimed Pat joyfully. “I’ve been in the dumps since Jack went. Never knew how much I depended upon Jack for amusement,” her voice trailed off. “Poor old Jack! I wonder where she is and—why?”
Gloria had not raised her head and therefore could not see the swift change that swept over Mary’s pale face. Trixy again intervened.
“If we organize what is to be our object?” she asked.