Sylvia Lindsay. 63. I am pleased, Sylvia, to find you have done so well, and hope you will continue with such a good record. I should like to see improvement in your writing, and you must make that your chief care. In every other respect your work is highly satisfactory. Girls, take your places!"
It was a proud moment for Sylvia when she stepped above Marian Woodhouse to claim her seat at the top of the class. Marian held her head down and looked as black as thunder; Linda could scarcely conceal her delight; Connie Camden was nudging Nina Forster; and Gwennie's eyes filled with tears at the sight of her sister's humiliation. She had no ambition for herself, but she had always gloried in Marian's success.
"It's a shame!" she whispered to Jessie Ellis. "That new girl has no right to get top. I'm sure Miss Arkwright must have favoured her."
Miss Arkwright looked as surprised as anybody, but her conscience was clear of all favouritism, she was strictly impartial, and Miss Kaye herself had marked the exercises. She made no comment, however, and lessons began as usual.
The eight girls were seated in a row on a form opposite their teacher's desk, and were expected to sit with shoulders erect, hands folded, and feet neatly placed together. Sylvia, who had rather fidgety ways, and was apt to wriggle when answering a question, found it hard to keep this prim position, and, in the agony of recalling the principal tributaries of the Yorkshire Ouse, she almost unconsciously seized a handful of pens from the box which lay on a chair by her side and began to finger them nervously.
"The Swale, the Yore, the Nidd, the Wharfe, the Aire," she said, counting each with a pen.
Marian put out her hand and drew the pens firmly away.
"Two more," suggested Miss Arkwright.
"The Swale, the Yore, the Nidd, the Wharfe, the Aire——" repeated Sylvia desperately, missing the pens and feeling as if she could not go on without them.
"Next!" said Miss Arkwright, who never waited long for anybody.