Mary, however, was frowning darkly at the board. She wondered in which section Marjorie intended to recite geometry. She had been so busy with her own woes that gloomy morning that she had quite forgotten to plan with Marjorie. Oh, well, she reflected, what difference did it make? Marjorie wouldn't care whether they recited together or not. Very likely she had already made plans with that odious Constance Stevens that would leave her out. Marjorie had already said that she and Constance intended to go on with French together. Then there were Cæsar's Commentaries. She had finished first-year Latin. She would have to take them next. Suddenly a naughty idea came into her perverse little brain. Why not purposely leave Marjorie out of her calculations? Marjorie had wished her to take chemistry. Very well. She would disappoint her by choosing something else. Then if Mr. Dean fitted out a laboratory, his daughter would have the pleasure of working in it all by herself. She would show a certain person what it meant to cast aside a lifelong friendship. Oh, yes, Marjorie was anxious for her to take English literature. She would take rhetoric instead. She would go still further. If when classes assembled she found herself in the same geometry section with her chum she would make an excuse and change to another period of recitation. The frown deepened on her smooth forehead as she jotted down her subjects on the sheet of paper before her.
Suddenly conscious of the intent regard of someone, she raised her head. A pair of elfish black eyes were fixed upon her in curious intent.
"Who are you?" asked Mignon La Salle with cool impudence. "You look like that priggish Miss Stevens. I hope for your sake you are not a relative of hers."
"Most certainly I am not," retorted Mary, flushing angrily. It was too provoking. Why must she be constantly reminded of her resemblance to one she disliked so intensely? In her annoyance at the nature of the French girl's remarks, she quite overlooked the impertinence of her address.
A gleam of satisfaction flashed across Mignon's face. "Then there is hope," she returned, holding up her forefinger in an impish imitation of a world-wide advertisement. "Say it again. I can't believe the evidence of my own ears."
"I am not a relative of Miss Stevens," repeated Mary a trifle stiffly. The French girl's mocking tones were distinctly unpleasant. "Why do you ask?"
"Because I wish to know," shrugged Mignon Then she added tactfully, "Please don't think me rude. I am always too frank in expressing my opinions. If I dislike anyone I can't smile deceitfully and pretend them to be my dearest friend."
Mary's sullen face cleared. Here at last was a girl who seemed to be sincere. She unbent slightly and smiled. Mignon returned the smile in her most amiable fashion.
"Pardon me for a moment." Mignon turned in her seat and began fumbling in a little leather bag that lay on her desk.
Mary felt a quick, light touch on her arm. Susan Atwell began making violent signs at her behind Mignon's back. She desisted as suddenly as she began. The French girl had turned again toward Mary with the quick, cat-like manner that so characterized all her movements.