ON THE FIRING LINE
Introductions followed thick and fast. More than one pair of boyish eyes
had been centered approvingly on the girls that "Macy" was "rushing,"
and he was soon besieged with gentle reminders not to be stingy, but to
give someone else a chance.
When the enlivening strains of a popular dance began, Hal Macy pointed
significantly to his name on Marjorie's card. She nodded happily then
glanced quickly about to see if Constance had a partner. Surely enough,
she was just about to dance off with a rather tall, slender lad, whose
dark, sensitive face, heavy-browed, black-lashed eyes of intense blue
and straight-lipped, sensitive mouth caused her to say impulsively, "Oh,
who is that nice-looking boy dancing with Constance?"
Hal glanced after the two graceful, gliding figures. "That's Lawrence
Armitage. He's one of the best fellows in school and my chum. You ought
to hear him play on the violin. He's going to Europe to study when he
finishes high school."
"How interesting," commented Marjorie as they joined the dancers. Then,
as Mignon La Salle, wearing an elaborate apricot satin frock, flashed by
them on the arm of a rather stout boy, with a disagreeable face,
Marjorie suddenly remembered the existence of Mignon, Muriel and Susan.
Her eyes began an eager search for the Picture Girl. Muriel was sure to
look pretty in evening dress. Mignon's frock made her look older, she
decided. She soon spied Muriel, whose gown of white lace was vastly
becoming. So was Susan Atwell's dress of old rose and silver. She
wondered a trifle wickedly if they had not been surprised to see
Constance blossom out in such brave attire. Then she put the thought
aside as unworthy and determined to remember only the good time she was
having.
After each dance the four friends managed to meet and compare notes
before they were off again with their next partners, and as the party
progressed it became noticeable that there were no wallflowers in that
particular group.
"What do you think of that Stevens girl to-night, Mignon?" inquired
Susan Atwell as she and the French girl stood together for a moment
between dances.
Mignon's elfish eyes gleamed angrily. "I think such beggars as she ought
never to be allowed to come to our parties. Goodness knows where she
borrowed that dress. Perhaps she didn't borrow it." She raised her
shoulders significantly. "If Laurie Armitage knew what a low,
disreputable family she has, I don't think he'd waste his time with
her."
"Did Laurie ask you to dance to-night?" asked Susan inquisitively.
But with a muttered, "I want to speak to Marcia," Mignon flounced off
without answering Susan's question, and the latter confided to Muriel
afterward that Mignon was mad as anything because Laurie hadn't noticed
her, but was trailing about after Miss Nobody Stevens.
Completely unaware that she was adding to the French girl's list of
grievances, Constance had danced to her heart's content, quite positive
in her own mind that she had never met a more delightful boy than
Lawrence Armitage, and that never before had she so greatly enjoyed
herself. And now the wonderful party was almost over. She examined her
card to see with whom she had the next dance. Then her glance straying
down, she noticed that a bit of the tiny plaiting at the bottom of her
chiffon skirt had become loose and was hanging. Fearful of a fall, she
hurried toward the dressing-room. She would have the maid take a stitch
or two in it.
But the maid was not in the room.
A solitary figure in an apricot gown stood before the mirror, lingered
for a moment after Constance entered, then glided noiselessly out.
Evincing no sign of having seen Mignon, Constance began a diligent
hunt for a needle and thread. Failing to find them, she fastened the
loose bit of plaiting with a pin and hurried out into the gymnasium. Her
next dance was with Lawrence Armitage. She must not miss it.
To her surprise Mignon re-entered the dressing-room as she left it.
Constance quickly made her way toward the corner which her friends had
selected as their headquarters.
"I tore the plaiting of my dress," she said ruefully to Marjorie. "I
couldn't find the maid or a needle, so I had to pin it. I'm awfully
sorry. I don't know how it happened."
"That's nothing," returned Marjorie, cheerfully. "I have a great long
tear in my sleeve. Someone caught hold of it in Paul Jones, and away it
went. Don't look so guilty over a little thing like that."
"You don't----" began Constance, but she never finished.
A tense little figure clad in apricot satin confronted her, crying out
in tones too plainly audible to those standing near, "Where is my
bracelet? What have you done with it?"
Constance stared at her accuser in stupefied amazement. Her friends,
too, were for the moment speechless.
"Answer me!" commanded Mignon. "I left it on the table in the
dressing-room. You were the only one in there at the time. When I
remembered and came back for it you were just leaving, but the bracelet
was gone. No one else except you could have taken it."
Still Constance continued to stare in horror at the French girl. She
tried to speak, but the words would not come. Attracted by Mignon's
shrill tones, the dancers began to gather about the two girls. It was
Marjorie who came to her friend's defense.
Even as a wee girl Marjorie Dean had possessed a temper. It was not an
ordinary temper. It was not easily aroused, but when once awakened it
shook her small body with intense fury and the object of her rage was
likely to remember her outburst forever after. Knowing it to be her
greatest fault, she had striven diligently to conquer it and it burst
forth only at rare intervals. To-night, however, the French girl's
heartless denunciation of Constance during a moment of happiness was too
monstrous to be borne. In a voice shaking with indignation she turned to
those surrounding her and said, "Will you please go on dancing? I have
something to say to Miss La Salle."
They scattered as if by magic, leaving Marjorie facing Mignon, her arm
about Constance, her face a white mask, her eyes flaming with scorn.
Then she began in low, even tones:
"I forbid you to say another word either to or about my friend Constance
Stevens. She has not taken your bracelet. She knows nothing about it. I
will answer for her as I would for myself. You have accused her of this
because you wish to disgrace her in the eyes of her friends and
schoolmates. I am not at all sure that you have lost it, but I am very
sure that Miss Stevens hasn't seen it. And now I hope I shall never be
called upon to speak to you again, for you are the cruelest, most
contemptible girl I have ever known; but, if I hear anything further of
this, I will take you to Miss Archer, to the Board of Education, if
necessary, and make you retract every word. Come on, Constance."
With her arm still encircling the now weeping girl, Marjorie made her
way to the dressing-room. Jerry followed her within the next five
minutes.
"The car's here," she announced briefly. "Hal and Laurie and the Crane
are going home with us."
"Don't you cry, Constance," she soothed, patting the curly, golden head.
"Mignon made a goose of herself to-night. The boys are all disgusted,
and everyone knows she was making a fuss over nothing. You did exactly
right, too, Marjorie, when you sent us all about our business. I'm sorry
it happened, but you remember what I tell you, Mignon has hurt herself a
great deal more than she has hurt you."