“How dare you make fun of me, Frances Bliss? You ought to be ashamed of yourself for singing that hateful song about me at the top of your voice.” Blanche’s own voice had achieved staccato heights. Her face was an angry red; her eyes two belligerent blue sparks. “I heard every single word you and Jane Pellew said about me while you were out in front of the cottage, and just let me warn you that you’d better not try to play any stupid tricks on me. I won’t stand it. Do you hear me?”
“Of course I hear you. I’m not deaf.” Stung to anger by the unexpected attack, Frances brought mild sarcasm to her defense.
“I never said a word about you out there except to ask if you were up.” Glaring her righteous indignation, Jane Pellew now entered the lists.
From their various positions about the room, where they had been standing awaiting Blanche’s tardy arrival before sitting down to breakfast, the listeners to the altercation viewed the instigator in blank amazement.
“You said more than that,” hotly accused Blanche. Dislike of Jane caused her to seize the opportunity to lay the burden of the offense at the black-eyed girl’s door.
“What else did I say?” furiously challenged Jane.
“Jane said nothing whatever about you,” cut in Frances sharply. “I am the only one that said anything, and I was only in fun. It is very unjust in you—”
“That will do, girls.” Miss Drexal interrupted in her most registrarial manner. “As hostess, it is not my place to rebuke my guests. As your guardian and teacher, I must insist that you stop this quarreling. Please take your places at table. After breakfast, we will hold court in the living room, and go further into this matter.”
The prey of many emotions, eight girls slipped obediently into the places they had occupied at dinner the previous evening. Blanche alone made no move to obey the dignified request. For an instant she stood stubbornly still, then flounced to her place with a toss of her auburn head. Seating herself at the head of the table, Miss Drexal touched the little silver bell beside her plate. The signal brought Martha from the kitchen.
“We are ready for breakfast, Martha. Will you serve the canteloupe?” she requested, with a show of placidity which she was far from feeling.