There was a lull, and then—I knew it must soon come—a voice from the far end of the room. “I have thirty-seven’s clothes” (everything was marked with our school numbers), “instead of mine.”
“Mary Aylmer, be quiet!” commanded Madame Chapelle.
“But, Madame, I tell you truly, I have thirty-seven’s clothes. Who is thirty-seven?”
“I am,” cried another voice,—Eloise Didier’s. “But I haven’t got your clothes, Mary Aylmer. I’ve got Alice Campbell’s. Here, Alice,—twenty-two,—come take your things.”
“Who is thirty-three? Ruffled night-gown with two buttons off. Oh, shame!” sang out Marie jubilantly.
“Children, will you be silent!” said Madame Chapelle, angry and bewildered. “What do you mean by such behaviour?”
“Forty-two’s stockings want darning,” said a reproachful voice. It was very probable, for I was forty-two.
“So do thirty-eight’s.”
“Adelaide H. McC. Harrison,” Elizabeth read slowly, and with painstaking precision. “Haven’t you any more initials, Adelaide, you could have put on your underclothes?”
“Look again, Elizabeth. Surely there’s a coronet somewhere?” interposed Eloise Didier sardonically. Adelaide was not popular in our community.