"Indeed it's not, it's C-h-a-r-l-i-e. Why, even Jessie Ellis knows that."
"I've seen it C-h-a-r-l-e-y in a book," objected Sylvia, who meant to fight her own battles.
"Then it must have been a misprint."
"I believe you can spell it both ways," said Hazel, "just like Lily or Lillie."
"Then it's old-fashioned, and my way's the best," declared Marian, who loved to argue.
"Oh, get on and never mind!" cried Linda. "We want to hear the other telegrams. What does it matter how we spell them?"
At half-past seven a tray with glasses of milk and plates of bread-and-butter and biscuits was brought into the room, and, when supper was finished, Mercy Ingledew, the monitress, came to see that all went off to their bedrooms, going upstairs with them to help to plait their hair and superintend the due brushing of teeth and the tidy disposal of clothes. From the beginning it had seemed so new and strange and exciting that Sylvia had not yet found time for the tears which she had fully intended to shed, and it was only when she was in bed and the light turned out that she suddenly remembered how homesick she was. Even then the fresh events kept mixing themselves up with her regrets, and as she mopped her cheeks with her damp pocket handkerchief she thought: "It's much more interesting than I expected. I shall like Linda. But Marian Woodhouse needn't think she's going to teach me everything. I dare say I can learn lessons as well as she does. It would be lovely if I could be head of the class. I'm going to try and try just as hard as I possibly can, and then I could write to Mother and tell her I was top."
And with this meritorious resolution she fell asleep.