“And you, Miss Ralston, why aren’t you in your own room?” she continued, “you know you are not expected to enter another girl’s sleeping apartment after the hour for retiring.”
Without replying Olive promptly slipped back into her own room and rapidly began making ready for bed, not returning to talk to Jean or to Frieda even when Miss Sterne’s retreating footsteps were far out of hearing.
And only once in the next ten minutes did she understand what the other two ranch girls were saying and then it was Jean’s tones that were the more distinct.
Frieda was quietly slipping off a pale blue silk stocking and slipper, keeping her eyes fastened conscientiously on the floor, when Jean, now in her night gown, planted herself before her. “Where have you been all this time, Frieda Ralston, and why didn’t you and Mollie Johnson say good-night to Miss Winthrop when the rest of us did?”
Frieda looked up, her eyes, almost the color of her blue stockings, swimming in tears. “I was in the back hall, Jean, and I didn’t dream of its being so late. Do you think Miss Winthrop noticed?” the culprit faltered.
Jean cruelly bowed her head. “What is there that goes on in this school, Frieda, that escapes Miss Winthrop?” she inquired. “I suppose you will be able to explain to her in the morning why you were in the back hall instead of in the parlor with her guests, as you never seem to care to tell anything to Olive or to me any more. Please hurry to bed.”
Frieda was very angry at Jean’s superior air, but her own heart was quaking and her lips trembling, so that she could not answer back in the cool fashion she desired. “Mollie Johnson was with me,” she managed to say, “and two boys.”
Jean might have been the late Empress Dowager of China or the present Czarina of Russia, so majestic was her manner as she sat up in bed with her arms folded before her.
“I had no idea you were alone, Frieda,” she said firmly, “but will you please tell me why you went to the back hall when you knew perfectly well that Miss Winthrop was trusting you to behave like a lady and remain in the rooms where she was receiving her guests. I don’t know what Ruth and Jack will say.”
Frieda began to cry softly. “We were so hungry, Jean,” she murmured, struggling to braid her long locks of flaxen hair. “You see, we had only ices and cake for the party, and about eleven o’clock Tom Parker, the boy I was with, said he wished he had a sandwich, and I was just as hungry for one, so we found Mollie and another boy and slipped out of the dining room. Mrs. White, the housekeeper, was up and back in the pantry and she gave us cheese and pie and all sorts of good things.” And now Frieda’s courage returning in a small measure, she turned out the electric lights, hopping into bed. “I am not going to be treated like a criminal, though, Jean Bruce, so I shan’t tell you anything more,” she ended, burying herself under the cover.