“She’ll have it in for you,” laughed Henrietta.
“I like Sallie Dickinson,” said Bettie. “But I’m sort of sorry for her, too. She has to give out all the mail because she’s the only person who never gets any and she has to help in the kitchen sometimes, cleaning silver and things like that. And ringing that horrid bell. It isn’t any wonder her legs are so thin—always running up and down stairs and through all those long halls.”
“I like Maude Wilder,” said Jean. “She’s full of fun and she throws stones just like a boy.”
“I don’t care about Isabelle,” confessed Mabel. “She says she’s engaged.”
“Engaged!” squealed Marjory. “How old is she?”
“About fifteen. She says southern girls are always engaged. She talked about nothing but boys last night and she says she’s afraid she’s falling in love with the history teacher—Mr. James Carter.”
“I saw him,” said Henrietta. “I should think if any man were perfectly safe from being fallen in love with, he was. He’s an ugly, near-sighted little brute with black whiskers and shabby shoes—another relative of Doctor Rhodes, Maude says. I guess Isabelle is just naturally sentimental like a silly maid Grandmother had once. She’ll have a sweet time getting sympathy out of Mabel, won’t she?”
“She’s writing sort of a continued letter to her Clarence,” laughed unsentimental Mabel. “He’s a silly looking thing, too. I saw his picture in her locket. She wears it night and day.”
“I suppose,” teased Henrietta, “you’re going to write to Laddie Lombard?”
“Of course I am, but that’s different. He’s just a regular boy—not a beau.”