"I? Mind?" Clare laughed elaborately. She picked up a book, and there was silence once more.
Leaves fluttered and a pen scraped. The light began to fade.
Suddenly Alwynne gave a smothered exclamation. Clare looked up and pulled herself upright, angry enough.
"Alwynne! Your carelessness—you've dropped your wet pen on my carpet. It's too bad."
Alwynne groped hastily beneath the table. But even the prolonged stooping had not brought back the colour to her cheek, as she replaced her pen on the stand.
"I'm sorry. I was startled. It hasn't marked it. Clare—just listen to this."
"What have you got hold of?" demanded Clare irritably. She disliked spots and spillings and mess, as Alwynne might know.
"It's Louise's composition book. I always wondered where it had got to, when I cleared out her desk. It must have lain about and got collected in with the rest, yesterday."
"Well?" said Clare, with a show of indifference.
"Here's that essay on King John and his times. Do you remember? You gave it to them to do just before the play. It's not corrected. Not finished." She hesitated. "Clare! It's rather queer."