The Kid was noisy and slangy and romping and boisterous; her way was beset with reproofs and demerits and minor punishments, but she had never yet been guilty of any actual felony. For three years, however, St. Ursula's had been holding its breath waiting for the crash. Miss McCoy, from her very nature, was bound to give them a sensation sometime.
When at last it came, it was of an entirely unexpected order.
Rosalie Patton was the Kid's latest room-mate—- she wore her room-mates out as fast as she did her shoes. Rosalie was a lovable little soul, the essence of everything feminine. The Dowager had put the two together, in the hope that Rosalie's gentle example might calm the Kid's tempestuous mood. But so far, the Kid was in her usual spirits, while Rosalie was looking worn.
Then the change came.
Rosalie burst into Patty Wyatt's room one evening in a state of wide-eyed amazement.
"What do you think?" she cried. "Kid McCoy says she's going to be a lady!"
"A what?" Patty emerged from the bath towel with which she had been polishing her face.
"A lady. She's sitting down now, running pale blue baby ribbon through the embroidery in her night gown."
"What's happened to her?" was Patty's question.
"She's been reading a book that Mae Mertelle brought back."