"We should spread this out in the sun. Then something chemical will happen, and the ink will fade away."
"This ink will never fade. I am sure of that, and besides there's no sun to-day, and there won't be, because it's after four o'clock."
"To-morrow will do just as well," said Martine.
"If aunt Tilworth doesn't happen to come in."
"What are you afraid of, my dear Prissie? You surely don't expect your aunt to whip you like a baby?"
"Of course not. My aunt doesn't mean to be unkind, only she is very particular."
"I should say so. Her house shows that she was meant to be a regular old maid. How I should love to stir things up a little. I don't suppose you dropped that ink on purpose, though the room certainly looks far less prim than when I saw it a day or two ago."
Priscilla bore Martine's teasing fairly well, but at last she said firmly, "I have wasted a lot of time over this ink-spot. Now I must go back to my work. I haven't even prepared my lessons for Monday. I know you will excuse me, Martine, and I am ever so much obliged for your help."
"On this hint I'll act," replied Martine, gayly. "Your spot is certainly worse than the one in Macbeth, though I won't use the language that Macbeth—or was it her Ladyship?—used regarding it. But don't worry, Prissie dear. I will arrange things so that no one will know what happened." And suiting her action to her words, Martine carefully replaced the scarf on the table and set a large pincushion over the ink-spot, so that not a vestige of the spot, or of the attempts to remove it, could be seen.
Then with a word or two more of absurd advice to Priscilla, Martine, bidding her friend good-bye, tripped lightly downstairs.