"She was telling me about Agatha. And I said—why on earth didn't she complain to you? And she said—nothing on earth would induce her to. I said—I was sure you would be only too glad for her to ask you. And she said——" Alwynne paused dramatically: "She said—she hadn't the faintest doubt you would, and that I was a charming child, but that she happened to understand you. Then we had a row of course."
Clare pealed with laughter.
"She's quite right, Alwynne. You are a charming child. So that is Mademoiselle Charette, is it? And I never guessed." She mused, a curious little smile on her lips.
"She's a dear, really," said Alwynne apologetically. "Only she's what Mrs. Marpler calls ''aughty.' I can't think why her knife's into you."
"Suppose——" Clare's eyes lit up, she showed the tip of her tongue—sure sign of mischief afloat. "Suppose I pull it out? What do you bet me, Alwynne?"
Alwynne laughed.
"I wish you would. I don't like it when people don't appreciate you. Anyhow, I wish you'd settle Agatha. You know, it's not doing the scholarship French any good. The class slacks. Mademoiselle is worried, I know."
Clare was serious at once.
"That must stop. The standard's too high for trifling. And one or two of them are weak as it is. Especially Louise. Isn't she? Don't you coach her for the grammar? How is her extra work getting on, by the way? Like a house on fire, I suppose?"
"Not altogether." Alwynne looked uneasy.