Suddenly the storm broke. A babel of protesting exclamations arose, growing louder. A tall sophomore with glasses sprang to her feet crying out: “This is not fair, Miss Remson. Our club is strictly private. No one except the members and yourself was invited to be here tonight. I object, Madame President.” She whirled, appealing to Julia.

“Miss Saylor, your objection is sustained.” Julia’s expression was one of empty dignity. She looked ludicrously owl-like. “We are glad of Miss Remson’s presence here tonight. However, we prefer not to have outsiders at our business meetings.” She regarded the four “outsiders” with a cold stare. “Please take this chair, Miss Remson.” She nodded to a vacant chair near her own.

“Thank you.” Miss Remson seated herself without further remark.

The noise attending the entrance of Miss Remson and her four aides had partially subsided while Julia was speaking. It now began again. Half a dozen girls simultaneously found their feet to make displeased protest.

Suddenly Muriel stepped in front of her companions and raised a hand for silence. Her gesture was thoroughly good-humored. Her sparkling face was full of condescending geniality. “My, but you are an inhospitable crowd!” she declared. “You don’t know what you are trying to do. You are trying to put me out of the show business. These are my three performers and this is our next stand. Have a heart!”

No one could be more irresistibly funny than Muriel when she chose. Laughter greeted her mock reproachful speech, rather half-hearted, but laughter, nevertheless. The ominous babel of displeased voices died down.

“Miss Harding!” Julia adopted a tone of deep affront. “Won’t you please consider the privacy of this club and——”

“How can you?” Muriel looked grieved, then laughter chased away her pretended grief. “Have pity on a poor showman, and his exhibits. ‘Remember the stranger within thy gates,’” she quoted affably, well aware of the sighing breath that rose from the company at the reminder of Hamilton’s first tradition. “There’s money in this business for me this evening. I always take up a collection after each performance. Why be haughty? Stay and see the show.”

“Show! Show!” The sunny side of girl nature could not but respond to Muriel’s nonsensical blandishments. Here and there among the group a frowning face was to be seen. The majority were longing for fun, however. And the majority ruled. Then, too, Muriel was extremely well liked.

The laughing cry of “Show” continued. Julia Peyton raised an imperious hand in an effort to fix attention upon herself. She addressed the crowd, but the crowd refused to listen to her. Muriel had won her point. She had also delivered a pertinent rebuke under cover of her gaiety.

“Assert yourself as president,” Mildred Ferguson urged Julia in low stormy tones. She was furious at the unexpected intrusion. “What does Miss Remson think she is going to do, I wonder? She’ll not honor the petition. That’s certain. To bring Miss Cairns in here! She means to fight for her and make us a whole lot of trouble—if she can.”

“Oh, those provoking girls!” Julia was ready to cry with chagrin. “They’re letting Miss Harding make perfect geese of them. And all because she is funny, or thinks she is.”

“She’s funny enough,” Mildred admitted sulkily. She turned to listen against her will to Muriel’s flow of inimitable nonsense.

Muriel had ranged Marjorie, Leslie and Doris in a row and was now engaged in busily showing them off to the roomful of girls. She treated them as she might have a collection of bisque dolls. She moved their arms and hands about at will, took them by the shoulders, one after another, spun them round then posed them in a series of ridiculously stiff attitudes. She finally pretended to wind up a mechanism between Marjorie’s shoulders and Marjorie came to life and sang Stevenson’s “In Winter,” in a thin childish voice. She met with a cordial reception.

Doris, when wound up, executed a graceful little dance which was heartily applauded. Leslie came last. She sang a verse of a French song with an artistry of expression and gesture that was a revelation to the audience who had gathered to condemn her. After she had finished and given a funny little exhibition of running down and becoming immobile again an odd silence reigned. It was shattered by a girl’s voice from the back of the room. “Clever, bravo!” she cried. “Encore, encore!”

Next instant the room rang with cries of “Encore!” Muriel favored her audience with a Cheshire puss smile and laboriously wound up Leslie again. She sang the second verse with more clever gestures.

When Muriel could make herself heard she went on to announce that the performance would close with one verse of “Lightly row,” sung by the “Great Little Three.” Then she promised to press speech buttons in the backs of the trio’s necks. The Great Little Three would then thank their audience for their attention.

Rather to her surprise this announcement also elicited approval. She had been afraid the girls would scent a lecture in her words and shy off from it. Instead cries of “Speech! Speech!” ascended.

“Thank you for your appreciation,” Marjorie began in her own sweet tones as Muriel stepped back from pressing the speech button at the nape of her white neck. “We should feel so hurt if we thought you hadn’t liked us. Though we seem only mechanical we have very sensitive feelings. We are glad if we have amused you and we hope you will always think as kindly of us as we think of you.” Thus Marjorie’s little speech ended.

Doris came next. She said with her soft, fascinating drawl: “As I am a dancing doll it is very hard for me to speak. So I will say only that I wish the Orchid Club may flourish long as one of Hamilton’s most representative sororities, with truth, honor and justice for its motto.”

“Rah, rah, rah, for the college beauty!” proposed someone. The cheers were given with a will. Doris smiled and bowed her thanks, looking as lovely as a veritable fairy-tale princess. The audience could no more help liking her for her beauty than they could help succumbing to Marjorie’s charm.

Leslie’s speech began in French. She made two or three droll remarks in the language, accompanying them by truly Gallic gestures of her hands and shrugs of her shoulders. She was a French scholar, having spoken it from early childhood. Ripples of laughter from her listeners testified as to their admiration for her cleverness.

Suddenly she dropped into English with a change of tone that brought forth a kind of united gasp from the rows of girls. “And now the show is over, and the play is played out,” she said in a steady, resolute tone that somehow carried with it an unspoken determination toward courage of the true sort. “I have read your petition. I have read the list written by Dulcie Vale. Both are a waste of paper. You can neither make nor mar me. I am the only one to do either. I know this now. I learned it by failing to accomplish such injustices against others as those you have lately framed against me. Whatever you may have heard of me belongs to the past; not the present. I am here to do a certain thing which I have promised myself shall be done. I shall continue to live at the Hall because Miss Remson wishes me to do so. But for all I did when I was at Hamilton nearly three years ago which was against tradition and honor I am reaping in this one respect. To live at Wayland Hall is the greatest punishment for me that could be devised. So my advice to you tonight is to leave me to work out my own salvation. I promise not to trouble you.” With a grave inclination of the head Leslie stepped back beside Marjorie. Marjorie put out an arm and dropped it affectionately about Leslie’s waist.

“I think it’s too bad; shameful in us!” A pretty brown-eyed young woman had sprung to her feet with the contrite cry. “How could we have been so—so spitefully foolish? I shall cross my name off that petition. Miss Remson won’t you please destroy both it and that list? How many are with me in this?” She waved a rallying hand to the buzzing company.

“I am. And I.” A babel of “I’s” was heard.

Julia Peyton jumped up to defend the losing fight. Her voice was drowned in the noise. Mildred Ferguson tried to make herself heard and met with defeat.

Muriel had forsaken her duties as showman and was animatedly talking to two or three girls nearest to where she stood. Doris had come up on Leslie’s other side and had also put an arm around Leslie. Miss Remson sat watching the noisy company, a bright smile on her thin, kind face.

Muriel stepped up to her and asked an eager question. Miss Remson handed her a thin packet of folded papers. Muriel took them, then faced the company. She waved them energetically in air until she had attracted general attention to herself.

“This is my license to go into the show business,” she cried laughingly. “I find I shall be too busy from now on to need it. Is there anyone here who would like to have it?”

“No, no, no!” came the emphatic protest. “Burn it up. Tear it up. Lose it in the furnace!” and plenty of other suggestions answered her mischievous inquiry.

“All right.” Muriel cast a laughing glance at Julia Peyton who was looking the picture of impotent wrath. She caught the glance and turned her head haughtily away. “I have no matches,” Muriel continued apologetically, “and the furnace isn’t handy. Shall I?” She made a move as though to tear the papers in half.

“Yes.” The welcome affirmation came with a shout.

“And we are all friends?” Muriel asked with sly geniality.

“Yes.” Again the shout echoed through the big room.

“Very well.” Muriel showed candid delight in tearing the papers intended to cause unhappiness into bits. “Please pardon us for having interrupted your meeting,” she went on. “We are going now. Good night. If any of you are thinking of starting in the show business I can give you pointers. I might even decide to lend you my dolls. Good night.”

She made a smiling move toward leaving the room. The three other girls and Miss Remson followed her. None of them had stepped half way down the aisle before they were hemmed in by a jubilant, chattering crowd. An impromptu reception started in the middle of the aisle. Leslie found half a dozen hands extended to clasp hers.

“Tell the girls if you can make them hear you that there are three big ginger cakes in the cake box, and that free lemonade is a feature of your show,” Miss Remson told Muriel.

In the midst of the cheer that hailed this good news Julia and Mildred skirted one side of the room, keeping as far from the jolly crowd as they could. They reached the door and hurried away from the meeting they had planned with such unkind zest. It had turned out very differently from their expectation.