“I thought Sybil was taking on unnecessary trouble for herself by adopting the child as mascot.”
It was Sylvia.
“Quixotic, I call it. Especially when the Daisies were so keen to hold the Cup for the second year, and a newcomer might easily have pulled them down. Well, they’ve lost it now, I’m afraid; and even though it will go to the Foxgloves instead, yet Hilda was saying that it is hard on Sybil.”
“Lost the Cup; yes, in two senses.” It was Doron’s voice. “I suppose you are right. Miss Carey could not overlook it, I should think. She would say, I expect, that even though the child isn’t enrolled yet, Sybil should have had more control over her.”
The said “child” suddenly appeared—choking, speechless, rising from the lowest shelf but attempting to face the two. “I—” began Betty.
“Go and take your place in the preparation-room,” said Sylvia in level tones. “We did not know you were there,” she added quietly, “or we should not have said what we did in your hearing, of course. Still, you must know it some time.”
They had said she was to go to the preparation-room: they expected her to obey, of course; but Betty couldn’t. Saddled even though she was with books of every description, she took a flying headlong race down the corridor and into the cloakrooms behind. Then she flung down her impedimenta and hurried breathlessly miserable into the garden. She must get away; she must. Up the green strip between the gardens into the school wood behind she went, and flung herself down under the trees.
And Sybil was seated beside her among the bracken.