she would tone down her taste in colours a bit. That scarlet evening dress she wore at the Prep concert—really, you know, it’s weird.”
“She looked like a tall golden lily in a scarlet sheath, I thought,” said Emily.
“What a loyal friend you are, dear. I wonder if Ilse would stand up for you like that. Well, I suppose I ought to let you study. You have English at ten, haven’t you? Mr. Scoville is going to watch the room—Mr. Travers is sick. Don’t you think Mr. Scoville’s hair is wonderful? Speaking of hair, dear, why don’t you dress yours low enough at the sides to hide your ears—the tips, anyway? I think it would become you so much better.”
Emily decided that if Evelyn Blake called her “dear” again she would throw an ink-bottle at her. Why didn’t she go away and let her study?
Evelyn had another shot in her locker.
“That callow young friend of yours from Stovepipe Town has been trying to get into The Quill. He sent in a patriotic poem. Tom showed it to me. It was a scream. One line especially was delicious—‘Canada, like a maiden, welcomes back her sons.’ You should have heard Tom howl.”
Emily could hardly help smiling herself, though she was horribly annoyed with Perry for making such a target of himself. Why couldn’t he learn his limitations and understand that the slopes of Parnassus were not for him?
“I do not think the editor of The Quill has any business to show rejected contributions to outsiders,” she said coldly.
“Oh, Tom doesn’t look on me as an outsider. And that really was too good to keep. Well, I think I'll run down to the Shoppe.”
Emily sighed with relief as Evelyn took her departure. Presently Ilse returned.
“Evelyn gone? Sweet temper she was in this morn-
