‘I say, don’t bother! Thanks awfully, don’t you know,’ stammered Barbara, who was a little flustered at finding herself the object of so much attention. She helped herself to bread and jam, accepted the milk, which the bearer insisted on holding for her till she felt inclined to drink it, and then tried to slip away as usual to a retired corner. But her way was barred by another group of girls, headed by the zealous Angela herself.
‘I wonder if you’ll help me with my algebra in French class,’ began the latter, beaming upon her former enemy with the air of one who was conferring a favour. ‘I always get in such a bog over it.’
‘You’re so splendid at algebra, Babs, aren’t you?’ added another, with great warmth.
‘She’s good at lots of things! She’ll get to the top of the Fifth in no time, won’t she?’ cried Angela, with her ordinary disregard for facts.
‘Oh, no,’ said Barbara, earnestly. ‘There’s my spelling; you’re forgetting that.’
‘Ye–es,’ allowed Angela, unwillingly; ‘but spelling isn’t everything.’
‘Should think not, indeed!’ echoed the chorus of enthusiasts.
‘And I don’t know any arithmetic,’ proceeded Barbara, desperately. It really hurt her regard for truth to have all these absurd remarks made about her.
‘What’s arithmetic?’ demanded Angela, loudly.
‘Only think of the piles of history you know!’ chimed in some one else.