“Stay there, tiresome old thing!” she emphasized. “I’ve had enough of you for one evening.”
“What’s the matter, Patsy?”
Beatrice Forbes raised mildly inquiring eyes from the theme she was industriously engaged in writing.
“Lots of things. I hate French verbs. The crazy old irregular ones most of all. They start out one thing and by the time you get to the future tense they’re something entirely different.”
“Is that all?” smiled Beatrice. “You ought to be used to them by this time.”
“That’s only one of my troubles,” frowned Patsy. “There are others a great deal worse. One of them is this Easter vacation business. I thought we’d surely have three weeks. It’s always been so at Yardley until this year. Two weeks is no vacation worth mentioning.”
“Well, that’s plenty of time to go home in and stay at home and see the folks for a while, isn’t it?” asked Beatrice.
“But we didn’t intend going home,” protested Patsy.
“Didn’t intend going home?” repeated Beatrice wonderingly. “What are you talking about, Patsy Carroll? I certainly expect to go home for Easter.”