Monica lifted her head with a jerk from the close inspection of the toe she was rubbing into the ground. "If she were my friend I shouldn't care if she turned up at school parties with no stockings on at all," she flared suddenly, and picking up her book she walked out of the summer-house.
Allison looked after her thoughtfully. "Funny kid! I wonder what she meant by that last outburst? Well, I've done my best to square things a bit for Nat, but from the way in which I've heard she plays up in class I don't envy Nat her study-mate."
When Nat came into her study to do her prep that evening—the two senior forms being entrusted with the privilege of doing their prep in their own studies and at their own time—she found Monica seated at the table with exercise-books, ink and pens spread out in front of her, apparently already hard at work.
Nat stared.
"Hallo! Why this unusual industry?" she demanded. "'Tisn't Latin prep to-night and that's the only prep I've seen you tackle in real earnest so far."
Monica looked up. "I have made a resolution," she declared. "At least, I've a new ambition."
"What's that?"
"I'm not going to waste any more time. I'm going to swot hard and I'm coming out top in the next term exam."
Nat sank limply into a chair, overcome with amazement. "Whatever made you think of that?"
"Well," replied Monica, "when I first came I didn't care a toss how long I stayed. I shouldn't have minded if I had been expelled the first day. But I've got a new idea for getting my own back on the sanctimonious Fifth. I'm going to give them a nasty little jolt by beating them all at their own game, so to speak. Nothing I could possibly do will annoy Irene Eames, for instance, as much as being beaten by me."