‘What about?’ asked Jean.
‘Oh, not about anything,’ answered Angela, shrugging her shoulders. ‘When the Babe is in a fury, it’s never about anything, is it? It’s inside her, or something,’ she added, seeking in her mind for some explanation of the strange moods that made Barbara Berkeley a puzzle to every one.
‘Inside her!’ echoed Mary Wells, scornfully. ‘What you two can see in that child I never can make out. Fancy making friends with any one who loses her temper inside!’
‘Well, it’s better than losing it outside and upsetting everybody by howling like a baby, because you can’t find your pencil-box, isn’t it, stupid?’ cried Jean.
Mary blushed painfully at the personal reference, and hastily changed the conversation. ‘Barbara Berkeley is a spoilt little kid,’ she retorted. ‘She’s the most sullen, ill-tempered, obstinate little––’ The words stayed at the tip of her tongue, for the unconscious subject of them had suddenly joined the group round Mary, and was staring at her in her most solemn and disconcerting manner.
Mary Wells felt foolish. There was something about the youngest girl in the school, when she looked like that, that would make any one feel foolish. But Babs had evidently not heard a word she had been saying.
‘Come on,’ she said, hooking her arm into Jean’s; ‘I want to ask you something.’
The two wandered away together down the long gymnasium.
‘Look here,’ began Barbara, impetuously, as soon as they were out of hearing of the others. ‘Are you keen on winning that prize?’
Jean drew a long breath. She wanted to take that prize back with her to the little home in Edinburgh, where she had been adored and spoiled for twelve whole years, more than she had ever wanted anything in the world; and she did not know how to answer Barbara’s unexpected question.