lia in private is worth more than a long public
admonition. You've only to look at her face to know her type."

And Miss Rodgers, who stood no nonsense from really naughty and
turbulent girls, yielded in this case, and left the exclusive management
of Delia in the hands of her partner.

Of the seven damsels who sat under the yellow feathery flowers of the
mimosa bush, three of them--Peachy, Jess, and Delia--talked so hard and
continuously that none of the others had a chance to chip in with
anything more than an occasional yes or no. Irene realized in a vague
way that Esther Cartmel was plain and stodgy looking, but that every now
and then a world of light suddenly flashed into her eyes, and
transfigured her for the brief moment; that Sheila Yonge giggled at all
Peachy's remarks, and that Mary Fergusson was a pale and weak copy of
Jess, and slavishly followed her lead in everything. It was the seventh
member of the little party, however, who particularly attracted her
attention. Lorna Carson was quiet, probably from sheer lack of
opportunity to speak, but her pale face was interesting and her dark
eyes met Irene's with a curious questioning glance. It was almost as if
she were asking "Have we known each other before?" Irene could not help
looking at her, and ransacking the side cupboards of her memory to try
to light upon some forgotten clew as to why the face should seem half
familiar.

"Have I seen her in London? Or is she like some one else? No, I can't
fix her at all. Surely I must have dreamed about her," mused Irene,
while aloud she said, almost as if compelled to speak:

"Have you been long at school here? Are you English, or American, or
colonial, or what?"

"A little bit of anything you like," smiled Lorna. "Rachel gets very
muddled about me. I've such a sneaking weakness for Naples that I
believe she thinks I'm an Italian at heart. That's a crime Rachel
absolutely can't forgive. 'Foreign' is the last word in her vocabulary."

"So I gathered when she made me take that oath. I suppose she's head
girl and that's why she rules the roost? Is she decent or does she keep
you petrified? I don't know whether I'm expected to say 'Bow-wow,' or to
listen in respectful humility when she deigns to notice me."

"You'd better not have any 'bow-wows' with Rachel," broke in Peachy,
"though you just jolly well have to wag your tail the way she wants.
She's not bad on the whole, but rather a tyrant, and it would do her all