The tennis courts had been flooded and the shining blue expanse of ice delighted the girls of High Cliffs, who enjoyed outdoor frolics.
“But, Cathy, Miss Gordon herself made the announcement, and who are we to deny it?” Faith remonstrated. “However, as I said before, I never knew Marianne Carnot to write verse and when one is a natural poet, one scribbles in rhyme all of the time.”
Muriel and Joy were skating toward the bench, their faces flushed beneath their jaunty tams.
“That’s fine sport,” Rilla declared as they glided up. “At least I can stand now, thanks to the patience of all of you girls, but I never will be content until I can do the whirls and figure eights as well as Catherine.”
Laughingly Cathy held out her hands. “Come, I’ll give you a lesson!”
But Gladys detained them, saying: “Shall we tell the girls the bad news?”
“Bad news on a day as sparkling as this?” Joy began. Then, as she glanced from one face to another, she exclaimed: “I know what it is! You have heard who has won the poetry contest.”
“Have you really?” This eagerly from Muriel. How she did hope that the prize had been awarded to Joy. But, remembering what Miss Gordon had said, she almost knew the name that she would hear.
“Girls,” Catherine Lambert said emphatically, “I’m just sure that Marianne Carnot is a plagiarist.”
Faith put a warmly gloved hand on the arm of her friend. “That’s a very serious accusation, Cathy. I really do not think that we ought to make it unless we have more evidence than we have at present.”