Miss Cursiter bore down on her with her steady gaze, a gaze that was a menace and an appeal, and Rhoda gave a little gasp as if for breath.
"I can't go any farther."
"Do you realize what this means? You are not a deserter from the ranks.
It is the second in command going over to the enemy."
The words were cold, but there was a fiery court-martial in Miss Cursiter's eyes that accused and condemned her. If Rhoda had been dashing her head against the barrack walls her deliverance was at hand. It seemed that she could never strike a blow for Miss Quincey without winning the battle for herself.
"I can't help it," said she. "I hate it—I hate the system."
"The system? Suppose you do away with it—do away with every woman's college in the kingdom—have you anything to put in its place?"
"No. I have nothing to put in its place."
"Ah," said Miss Cursiter, "you are older than I thought."
Rhoda smiled. By this time, wrong or right, she was perfectly reckless. If everybody was right in rejecting Miss Quincey, there was rapture in being wildly and wilfully in the wrong. She had flung up the game.
Miss Cursiter saw it. "I was right," said she. "You are under an influence, and a dangerous one."