“Until we’re through, nobody ought to go,” explained the high-handed Myra Whitewell. “As I was saying, Peggy, your egotism——”
“Back it up, back it up,” protested Doris Winterbean.
“Well,” Myra accepted the challenge, “that poem of yours in the Monthly——”
“How did you know?” cried Peggy and Katherine, simultaneously.
“Why, I read the foolish thing in the Monthly,” snapped Myra, surprised.
Peggy, her eyes alight, and Katherine, dawning credulity in her face, turned and met each other’s gaze in slow triumph.
“It’s in?” asked Peggy breathlessly.
“Of course—how else——?” murmured Myra.
“Girls!” cried Peggy, radiantly, “my poem is in the Monthly! I didn’t suppose they’d really use it—oh, I would have told you all, if I’d been sure. Are the new Monthlies down on the table now, Myra?”
“Yes, they’re downstairs.”