"Isn't it just?—Maddy says heaps of girls can write French decently, but hardly anyone can speak it; so every Wednesday morning Remove II. B has the treat—I don't think!—of conversing with her in French, and you mayn't just say, 'Il pluit,' or something like that, and then dry up; you've got to converse, and she goes on till she drags it out of you."
"Does everyone?" asked Joey, palpitating.
"She picks the girls. Pretty sure to go for you as you're new. She'll want to know what your French is like."
"She won't take long to find out that it's utterly hopeless," Joey remarked, hunting for her shoes, which had gone under the bed.
"I say! wouldn't it be rather a rag to put Jocelyn—Joey, I mean—up to some perfectly awful French that would take half the lesson to correct?" suggested Noreen, of the fertile brain. "Then we'd get a rest."
"Brainy plan," approved Barbara. "But would you mind, Joey? You can't get into a row, you see, because she can't know if you really know any French or not; she'll only just point out to you where you're wrong, in the kind of tone which implies that they wouldn't keep idiots of your kind in France at any price, and you'll have to say, 'Merci bien,' or is it 'Beaucoup'?—I never can remember which—and 'Je comprends', or is it 'C'est comprenné?'—one does get out in the hols!—at proper intervals, and look intelligent——"
"Never mind if it's a bit of a strain," Noreen contributed, and Joey, having a shoe all ready in her hand, not unnaturally hurled it at the speaker. Noreen dodged, and it got the window, and made a huge star.
"My Sunday hat and Dublin Castle!" Noreen exclaimed, craning round from her seat on the bed to examine the mischief. "You've gone and done it now, Joey—at least it was most my fault really. I'll tell Matron that."
"Rot! I threw the shoe," Joey said, rather dismayed. "I don't mind about Matron; she can't do much worse than the ghastly stuff she's been giving me—at least I hope she doesn't stop the beastly window out of my pocket-money?"