That night when Deborah went upstairs the dormitory was empty. She turned the light up and drew her curtain and prepared for bed. Suddenly there was a great rush of feet down the stone stairs and Deborah’s curtain was swirled back with a rattle.
“Do you know who’s got the composition prize?” exclaimed half a dozen voices.
“Jane.”
“Who told you?”
“She did.”
“It’s like her impudence,” remarked one young lady.
“It’s shameful,” observed another. “She never wrote half so well as you did.”
“No, I know,” said Deborah, and she looked round at the girl who spoke, and laughed.
“Are you going to make a fuss about it?” asked another.
“Oh, no. I ought to be thankful to her. She has really spared me the unpleasant position of posing. In any case I would not have taken the prize.”