“Go in there,” she said. “I’m going to get to the bottom of this.”
They vanished into the principal’s own sanctum, Marguerite, apparently no expert in the interpretation of signs, observing with satisfaction:
“I hope she’ll get properly skinned alive for making a row like that in business hours. Why, it’s downright unladylike.”
Miss Graham, from her desk in the corner, gave her little scoffing laugh.
“Don’t be a fool, Marguerite. She was playing for that, of course. She made that noise on purpose so as Perox should hear her, and ask what was up. Old Perox has been dying to hear what the row’s about between you two for days, and now Gina can pitch her own yarn. Just like Gina!”
Lydia was astounded, as she often was, at the little Cockney’s penetration.
“Why are you staring, goggle-eyes?” said Miss Graham, rudely but not unkindly. “Don’t you think it’s true?”
With Marguerite Saxon’s small, squirrel face turned to catch her answer, Lydia made a diplomatic evasion.
“Rather an unfair advantage to take, wasn’t it?” she hazarded.
“I’ll tell Gina you think so,” said Rosie, like a shot.