“I suppose it’s to get even; we weren’t awfully pleasant about the Latin exam.” Betty was jumping at conclusions.
“Oh, Bet, how silly.” Polly turned from her
place at the window. “The Spartan’s not as bad as all that, she probably thinks we’ll enjoy it.”
“Yes, she does,” Betty was skeptical.
“Polly, talk sense,” Lois begged. “How could any one think that we’d rather listen to—Oh, mercy, when I think of it—the Revolution, battles and dates—Maybe the Spartan means well, only—”
But Polly was again looking out of the window. Her eye traveled over the familiar objects. The tennis court, the gym roof, and a little farther on, the corner of the stables and the power house. Something in the queer shaped little stone building caught her attention.
Betty was still raving. “But Lo, that’s not the worst of it, we’ll have to look at millions and hundreds of postal cards, while the Spartan’s cousin explains them like this:
“My dear young ladies,” Betty snatched up a nail file from Polly’s dresser and pointed to a picture on the wall; “in the foreground of this beautiful picture, we have the exact spot where five minute men fell after a heroic encounter with the British, in the year—”
“Oh, Bet, do stop; it’s too horrible. Can’t we cut?” There was a moment’s silence.
“We cut one lecture,” Polly said with meaning.