“Does any one know where Marianna Pendleton’s room is?”
At the unfamiliar sound of her real name, Polly looked so puzzled that she added:
“Your name is Marianna, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” assented Polly, “but I’ll never get used to it. No one has ever called me anything but Polly.”
“Then Polly you shall be; it suits you, and Marianna doesn’t.”
“How do you do? I’m Betty Thompson. Louise doesn’t seem to have the manners to introduce me.”
It was golden-haired, snub-nosed, freckled, little Betty, one of the most popular of the younger girls, who was speaking. Her timely impudence made every one laugh, and the ice was broken.
“I stand corrected,” murmured Louise, in what was meant to be an abject voice. “I’ll begin introducing you at once. This is Roberta Andrews; she’s in your class. This is Constance Wentworth; we’re very proud of Connie; she plays the piano wonderfully.”
“But she talks in her sleep,” interrupted Betty.
Everybody laughed at this. It was an old joke