Raymonde was abstracted that evening, both at preparation and at supper. In the dormitory she put aside all conversation with a firm: “Don’t talk to me, I’m thinking!” She borrowed Fauvette’s bottle of eau-de-Cologne, and went to bed 191 with a bandage tied round her head to assist her cogitations.
“Of course I shan’t go to sleep,” she assured the others. “I must just lie awake until the idea comes to me. Old Wilkinson’s on my mind.”
“Glad he’s not on mine,” gurgled Aveline, settling herself comfortably on her pillow. “Couldn’t you leave him until to-morrow?”
“Certainly not! I shall wake you up and tell you when my idea arrives.”
“Help!” murmured her schoolmate, half-asleep.
That night, when the whole household at the Grange was soundly wrapped in slumber, Aveline was suddenly brought back from a jumbled dream of punts, cows, and Latin exercises by feeling somebody shaking her persistently and urgently.
“What’s the matter?” she asked, sitting up in bed. “Is it Zepps?”
“Sh—sh! Don’t wake the whole dormitory, you goose!” came Raymonde’s voice in a whisper. “Remember Gibbie’s door’s wide open, can’t you? I’ve just got my idea.”
Aveline promptly lay down again and closed her eyes.
“Won’t it keep till to-morrow?” she murmured.