“You have the idea.”
“And I’m one of the workers this year. Here I am working my head off, in the language of the poet, and yet Hilary will carry off the honors at Commencement time! Hilary,”—Cathalina laid a hand on Hilary’s knee and bent forward to look up into her face—“do you want ’em all?”
“No, worthy club sister, and if I did, do you suppose for a minute that I could get ’em all?”
Cathalina gave a little laugh and settled back in her chair. “Ah, but Hilary’s been in the race from the start, and I only got in this year, so to speak.”
“I’m no artist, Cathalina, for one thing,” reminded Hilary. “Who made money on designs for pins?”
“That was an accident, luck.”
“That was genius wedded to labor,” corrected Hilary. “And who can talk French as well as the French teacher?”
“Cathalina!” exclaimed Lilian, Betty and Eloise in chorus.
“Don’t get discouraged so easily, Cathalina,” said Lilian. “I’m sure that Hilary will get a big prize in scholarship and other things, but even I who sit in the shadow of her greatness, as it were, am going to try for a literary prize or two,—O, Hilary, you, don’t mind, do you?” for Lilian thought that Hilary looked hurt.
“We’re proud of you, Hilary, not jealous,” said Eloise. “Now Lil and I nearly come to blows over who has the most,—more,—beautiful voice. If Madame puts Lilian on the big Spring Recital and doesn’t put me, I shall have a spasm or something. Really, I mean it.”