“Thou shalt sit near my throne,” spoke the queen, “and thou shalt be my handmaid!”
This was an honor, and was interpreted to mean that the little stranger would be taken into the “Glens” with open arms. Some of the others awaiting their sentence moved uneasily, but one slave (Tavia of course) asked if the handmaid knew where the spring was, as she would like a good drink of real water.
Truly the brown coffee on her face was running down, looking for cups, and sugar, and the evening was not so cool but that the hangings over the throne caused air congestion.
There was no mistaking the next number called. Only Jean Faval walked that way—with the fashionable stride—and only Jean held her head so high.
“Circe,” called the queen, “mix thy cup.”
The slave fetched a bowl, with a whole bunch of lighted Chinese “punks” smoldering into incense.
Jean looked at it disdainfully. Evidently she did not enjoy this form of initiation, and made no move to comply. Her manner caused surprise, as the “haze” was most innocent, and in no way stronger than that given the others.
“Dost not comply?” called the queen.
Jean put a whistle to her lips and blew it. Immediately all her club, some ten or twelve, rushed to the throne, tore down the hangings, and paraded off with the paraphernalia, singing something about “T’s and turn-outs, the real Glenwood scouts!”
For some moments a panic threatened. The senior “Glens,” who by rule and right, had always conducted this little affair, were indignant to the point of battle.