Once the bathing party had retired to their rooms, they made short work of discarding their wet suits for comfortable middy blouses, bloomers and blue uniform skirts. Though Blanche had begun her dressing prior to their return, they preceded her entrance into the dining room by several minutes. As a matter of fact, the Equitable Eight and Miss Drexal were patiently engaged in awaiting her coming, when she appeared among them, head held high, the picture of offended dignity.

“Good morning, Blanche,” greeted Miss Drexal pleasantly. She calmly ignored the signs of ill-humor, written large on the girl’s set features.

“Good morning.” Nodding stiffly to her hostess, Blanche swept wrathfully down upon Frances, who stood by a window talking to Anne Follett.

“How dare you make fun of me, Frances Bliss? You ought to be ashamed of yourself for singing that hateful song about me at the top of your voice.” Blanche’s own voice had achieved staccato heights. Her face was an angry red; her eyes two belligerent blue sparks. “I heard every single word you and Jane Pellew said about me while you were out in front of the cottage, and just let me warn you that you’d better not try to play any stupid tricks on me. I won’t stand it. Do you hear me?”

“Of course I hear you. I’m not deaf.” Stung to anger by the unexpected attack, Frances brought mild sarcasm to her defense.

“I never said a word about you out there except to ask if you were up.” Glaring her righteous indignation, Jane Pellew now entered the lists.

From their various positions about the room, where they had been standing awaiting Blanche’s tardy arrival before sitting down to breakfast, the listeners to the altercation viewed the instigator in blank amazement.

“You said more than that,” hotly accused Blanche. Dislike of Jane caused her to seize the opportunity to lay the burden of the offense at the black-eyed girl’s door.

“What else did I say?” furiously challenged Jane.

“Jane said nothing whatever about you,” cut in Frances sharply. “I am the only one that said anything, and I was only in fun. It is very unjust in you—”

“That will do, girls.” Miss Drexal interrupted in her most registrarial manner. “As hostess, it is not my place to rebuke my guests. As your guardian and teacher, I must insist that you stop this quarreling. Please take your places at table. After breakfast, we will hold court in the living room, and go further into this matter.”

The prey of many emotions, eight girls slipped obediently into the places they had occupied at dinner the previous evening. Blanche alone made no move to obey the dignified request. For an instant she stood stubbornly still, then flounced to her place with a toss of her auburn head. Seating herself at the head of the table, Miss Drexal touched the little silver bell beside her plate. The signal brought Martha from the kitchen.

“We are ready for breakfast, Martha. Will you serve the canteloupe?” she requested, with a show of placidity which she was far from feeling.

It was a somewhat uncommunicative company that presently began eating the delicious pink canteloupe Martha set before them. The several impersonal comments which one or another of them made fell rather flat. The atmosphere was still charged with the constraint created by Blanche’s outburst. Her lowered brows and pouting lips plainly indicated the will to renew the conflict at the first possible opportunity. Jane, also, showed signs of undiminished wrath. Frances’ merry features wore the preternaturally solemn expression that she usually assumed when trying to hold back her laughter. She was already beginning to see the funny side of the affair. Betty, Anne and Marian looked frankly puzzled. As faithful adherents to the kitchen, they were scatheless. Emmy’s lovely face wore an expression of bored resignation to the inevitable. Ruth’s eyes were full of grave concern. She had feared dire results when Frances had raised her voice in mischievous paraphrase. Sarah was industriously wondering whether Blanche had heard what she had said.

“Here comes the sacred omelet,” Betty called out with forced gaiety, as Martha appeared, bearing a large platter on which reposed a thick golden omelet, crowned with an inch of frothy white, faintly browned on top. “This is Marian’s and my work of art. I beat the eggs, and she did the rest. We made two, knowing that one would never satisfy this hungry horde.”

“Just wait until you see the bacon,” boasted Anne, “I’m responsible for its perfection. I helped Martha with the toast, too.”

“Let us also be helpful and gobble up this glorious array of eats,” beamed Frances as Martha reappeared with the bacon, made more crisply tempting by a garnishing of parsley.

An audibly contemptuous sniff from Blanche caused a quick flush to mount to Frances’ cheeks. The unfortunate allusion to being helpful had aroused the injured one to fresh ire. Before she could fling a cutting remark at Frances, Ruth tactfully headed her off.

“You all deserve to be decorated as chefs,” she said brightly.

“You mean chefesses,” amended Anne waggishly.

“Something like that,” returned Ruth, flashing her a grateful smile.

“Wait until Sarah and I take our turn in the kitchen. Then you’ll have something really praiseworthy in the line of eats,” promised Frances. “By the way, when are we to do our cooking stunt. I prefer trying my hand at breakfast. I think breakfast should be a very simple meal, though. Just fruit and coffee, and perhaps a little toast. Bread would be better. I can slice bread beautifully. Sarah can tend to the fruit, and we’ll let Martha make the coffee. It’s all just as simple as A. B. C.”

“Entirely too simple,” jeered Jane. “It’s a plain case of you shirk and we starve. I move that Frances be made to get the dinner to-night, all by herself, from a bill of fare that we shall lay out for her. I believe in a punishment that fits the crime.”

“You’ll find it an unlucky move for the Equitable Eight,” cheerfully retorted Frances. “I won’t speak of myself.”

“Have a little mercy on the rest of us, Plain Jane. Leave Frances alone in the kitchen to get the dinner, and we’ll all go hungry to bed. I wouldn’t trust her to boil water. She’d let the tea-kettle go dry while she composed an ode to the stove, or a sonnet dedicated to the frying pan,” ended Sarah with a derisive chuckle.

The vision of Frances dashing off an inspiration to the hapless kitchen range, while the tea-kettle bubbled merrily on to disaster, provoked a ripple of mirth in which Blanche Shirly alone refused to join. She was still darkly immersed in her own grievances. Nevertheless, this did not deter her from eating a substantial breakfast. Now and then she loftily addressed herself to Miss Drexal, at whose left she was seated, and who courteously attended to her wants. Her girl companions, however, might have been a thousand miles away for all the notice she took of them.

The meal, which had begun so unpropitiously, ended in a return of the irrepressible jollity that usually attended the Equitable Eight. Under th............