"Madame likes whatever is French."
"But Randolph is not French, are you, Randolph ?" said Black-
eyes, who was good-natured through everything.
"Madame is not French herself," said Miss Bentley.
"I hate everything at school!" St. Clair went on.
"It is too bad," said her friend. "Do you know, Daisy, St.
Clair always has the prize for compositions. What made you go
and write that long stuff about Rameses? the people didn't
understand it, and so they thought it was fine."
"I am sure there was a great deal finer writing in Faustina's
composition," said Miss Bentley.
I knew very well that Miss St. Clair had been accustomed to
win this half yearly prize for good writing. I had expected
nothing but that she would win it this time. I had counted
neither o n my own success nor on the displeasure it would
raise. I took my hat and went over to my dear Miss Cardigan;
hoping that ill-humour would have worked itself out by
bedtime. But I was mistaken.
St. Clair and I had been pretty near each other in our
classes, though once or twice lately I had got an advantage
over her; but we had kept on terms of cool social distance
until now.
Pages:
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392