‘Poor Angela!’ said Jean, stroking her forehead. ‘It’s awful hard lines that you should be the one to catch it.’
‘Oh, never mind about that,’ answered the victim, meekly. ‘I’m glad it’s me and not you.’
‘Lots of people don’t die, you know,’ added Barbara, taking hold of her hand and waggling it up and down in a way that was intended to express sympathy.
‘N–no,’ said Angela, with some reluctance; ‘but lots of people do. Anyhow, I hope I shall be brave, whatever happens.’ And she stifled a sigh.
‘Of course you will,’ said Jean, warmly. ‘We know that!’
‘If–if this should be the last time we are together before they separate us,’ continued Angela, opening her eyes again and looking up at them appealingly, ‘you will remember, won’t you, that––’
The door opened and put an abrupt stop to her pathetic last request. The triumvirate, still clasping hands affectionately, looked round and met the astonished gaze of the head-mistress.
‘What’s the matter with Angela?’ she inquired briskly.
Angela closed her eyes again hastily. The other two prepared valiantly to defend her position.
‘She’s got a headache and a sore throat, and she’s feverish,’ answered Jean, glibly.