"I've a rather decent locket, if you'd care for that—" continued Gwen.
"Hush! Be quiet! You've given me an idea, Gwen Gascoyne."
"Or I've a really jolly writing case—almost new—"
"I don't want your lockets or your writing cases; I've heaps of my own. I know one thing I do want, though, and if you like to trade, you can."
"Done! Only name it, and it's yours with my blessing."
"Well, I want this essay—"
"My essay! What do you mean?"
Gwen snatched back her exercise book as a mother clutches her first-born.
"I mean what I say. If you like to hand over 'Thomas Carlyle' to me, I'll take it instead of the sov., and call us quits. It would be a new experience to win a prize. How amazed everyone would be!"
"You surely wouldn't pass it off as your own?"