“I suppose because she’s French—”
“Not at all, my dear,” interrupted Ned. “It’s because she’s a real little beauty. Here come Dorothy and Tavia, leave it to them.”
The girls were at Glenwood School—all over the place, as Tavia expressed it. But the particular group in question happened to be situated in the broad hall near the “coming in” door—these girls always formed the reception committee on opening day.
“Oh,” moaned Dorothy, as she sank into a cushioned seat, “I’m dead and buried—”
“And no insurance,” interrupted Tavia, following Dorothy’s move and getting into some cushions for her own comfort.
“Mean trip?” asked Rose-Mary.
“Mean!” echoed Tavia, “we stopped at every telegraph pole and backed up between each pair. Doro made out all right—she had a book. But poor me! I just doubled up in a heap and now the heap is all doubled up in me,” and she went through a series of “squirms,” calculated to get “out of the heap.”
“We were just speaking of the new girl—Miette de—de—what is it?” asked Cologne.
“Miette de Pain, likely,” said Adele Thomas.
“Miette de Luxe,” put in Lena Berg. “That’s my limit in French.”