"Where did you pin this wonderful paper?" asked Pauline.
"On the dressing-room door."
"Where nobody would ever dream of looking!" returned Maisie. "Why couldn't you put the knife on the forfeit tray?"
"I really don't know! What's the use of making such an absurd fuss about trifles?" said Flossie, linking her arm in Norah Palmer's, and turning away.
"I call them principles, not trifles," murmured Maisie; "it's just on the same lines as the cribbing, not quite open and square. I wish Flossie had stayed at St. Bride's; I certainly don't consider her a credit to St. Chad's."
The quarrels between Honor and Flossie occasionally rose to the level of a miniature war. The latter never lost any opportunity of flinging ridicule and contempt on all things Irish, and Honor, who resented a slur on her native land more than a personal injury, could not keep her hot temper within bounds. It was, of course, very foolish to take any notice of Flossie's taunts, and so her friends reminded her.
"The more you blaze up, the more she'll tease, of course," said Maisie.
"Why can't you keep calm, and pretend you don't hear her?" said Pauline. "She doesn't try it on with us."
"You're such a set of stolid Anglo-Saxons!" declared Honor. "You never get roused about anything."
"It's bad form, my dear girl! Hysterics are out of fashion. We don't go in for them at Chessington."