“Well, she is de luxe, all right,” went on Cologne, “but I believe she signs her name Miette de Pleau, a queer name, but Miette suits her exactly, she is so tiny, like a crumb, surely.”
“Does Miette mean crumb?” lisped Nita Brandt.
“It does,” Cologne told her, “but it is also a pet name for Marie, used in certain parts of France—see page 167—”
“Or see the angel herself,” interrupted Edna, as the new girl, at that moment, entered the hall.
All eyes were instantly riveted on the stranger. Certainly she was a “beauty,” with that rare type of face one might expect to meet only between the pages of some art work.
And she was tiny—small in figure and small in height. Yet she held her head so well, and her shoulders were thrown back in such an enviable poise—no wonder the girls thought this little French girl well worth discussing.
For a moment she stood there, her brown eyes glistening and her cheeks aflame.
Dorothy stepped up to her.
“You are Miette, aren’t you?” she began kindly. “Come, let me introduce you. This is Rose-Mary Markin, we call her Cologne; this is Nita Brandt, this is Amy Brooks, this is Tavia Travers, and this is Edna Black, we call her Ned Ebony. You see,” went on Dorothy, as the new girl finished her graceful bow, “we nick-name everybody. I am afraid you will not escape.”
“I will not mind,” said Miette, smiling. “I have been called many names at home.”