“You’ll find it an unlucky move for the Equitable Eight,” cheerfully retorted Frances. “I won’t speak of myself.”
“Have a little mercy on the rest of us, Plain Jane. Leave Frances alone in the kitchen to get the dinner, and we’ll all go hungry to bed. I wouldn’t trust her to boil water. She’d let the tea-kettle go dry while she composed an ode to the stove, or a sonnet dedicated to the frying pan,” ended Sarah with a derisive chuckle.
The vision of Frances dashing off an inspiration to the hapless kitchen range, while the tea-kettle bubbled merrily on to disaster, provoked a ripple of mirth in which Blanche Shirly alone refused to join. She was still darkly immersed in her own grievances. Nevertheless, this did not deter her from eating a substantial breakfast. Now and then she loftily addressed herself to Miss Drexal, at whose left she was seated, and who courteously attended to her wants. Her girl companions, however, might have been a thousand miles away for all the notice she took of them.
The meal, which had begun so unpropitiously, ended in a return of the irrepressible jollity that usually attended the Equitable Eight. Under the careless chatter and light laughter, there still lurked in each youthful mind the disquieting recollection of the session yet to be held in the living room. It was that, undoubtedly, which caused the breakfasters to linger at the table. No one, except Blanche, was anxious for that particular session to commence.
“Perhaps we had better go into the living room, girls.” There was an almost imperceptible shade of annoyance in Miss Drexal’s reminder. Rising, she led the way to the spacious, sunlit room, directly across the short hallway from the dining room. It was an attractive apartment, done in soft browns, and simply but very comfortably furnished with deep willow and rope chairs. Aside from a broad willow settee, piled high with gaily colored cushions, a book case, a cabinet phonograph and a graceful willow stand heaped with current magazines, the room contained little else in the way of furnishings.
“Line up your chairs with the settee,” requested the registrar, a half smile curving her lips. “Blanche, I wish you to sit by me.” Miss Drexal had already set her chair where it faced the row. Now she motioned Blanche to one she had placed beside it. Seating herself she said with the utmost gravity. “You girls must necessarily play the part of the defendants. Blanche is of course the plaintiff. You also see before you your stern judge. Now let us attack this disagreement heart and soul, and see if we can’t settle it. We will first listen to the plaintiff. What seems to be the trouble, Blanche?”
Blanche scowled vindictively at the row of girlish faces bent on her. She did not approve of Miss Drexal’s straightforward methods. She was convinced that the older woman was merely trying to place her in a ridiculous light before the entire company. Shrugging her shoulders, she said disdainfully, “I don’t think it is my place to speak first. You had better ask these girls what they said about me.”
“According to law, you must state your own case,” declared Miss Drexal evenly.
“Very well, then, I will.” Blanche cast a spiteful, sidelong glance at the impassive disciple of the law, and proceeded to pour forth her tale of woe in short, angry sentences which lengthened as she continued into a veritable tirade, directly largely against Frances and the unjustly-maligned Jane. “For girls who pretend to be followers of the Camp Fire, I must say they act very queerly. I don’t believe back-biting is included in the list for Camp Fire honors. If it is, I’ve never seen it. When I have anything horrid to say to a girl, I say it to her face, not behind her back,” was her scornful conclusion.
“You have all heard the plaintiff’s accusations,” Miss Drexal stated quietly. “What have you to say, Frances?”