ing. I can’t understand what Mary sees in her. Mary’s a decent sort though she isn’t exciting.”
“Ilse,” said Emily seriously. “Were you out driving with Marsh Orde one night last week?”
Ilse stared.
“No, you dear young ass, I wasn’t. I can guess where you heard that yarn. I don’t know who the girl was.”
“But you cut French and went up-river with Ronnie Gibson?”
“Peccavi.”
“Ilse—you shouldn’t—really”
“Now, don’t make me mad, Emily!” said Ilse shortly. “You're getting too smug—something ought to be done to cure you before it gets chronic. I hate prunes and prisms. I’m off—I want to run round to the Shoppe before I go to the school.”
Ilse gathered up her books pettishly and flounced out. Emily yawned and decided she was through with the note-book. She had half an hour yet before it was necessary to go to the school. She would lie down on Ilse’s bed for just a moment.
It seemed the next minute when she found herself sitting up, staring with dismayed face at Mary Carswell’s clock. Five minute to eleven—five minutes to cover a quarter of a mile and be at her desk for examination. Emily flung on coat and cap, caught up her note-books and fled. She arrived at the High School out of breath, with a nasty subconsciousness that people had looked at her queerly as she tore through the streets, hung up her wraps without a glance at the mirror, and hurried into the class-room.
A stare of amazement followed by a ripple of laughter went over the room. Mr. Scoville, tall, slim, elegant, was giving out the examination papers. He laid one down before Emily and said gravely,
“Did you look in your mirror before you came to class, Miss Starr?”
