“Isn’t it cold?” she said, shivering, and raising her pretty face to Priscilla’s.
Prissie glanced at her for a moment, said Yes; she supposed it was cold, in an abstracted voice, and bent her head once more over her note-book.
Rosalind was looking very pretty in a dress of dark blue velveteen. Her golden curly hair lay in little tendrils all over her head, and curled lovingly against her soft white throat.
“I hate Kingsdene in a fog,” she continued, “and I think it’s very wrong to keep us in this draughty passage until the lecture-room is opened. Don’t you, Miss Peel?”
“Well, we are before our time, so no one is to blame for that,” answered Priscilla.
“Of course, so we are.” Rosalind pulled out a small gold watch, which she wore at her girdle.
“How stupid of me to have mistaken the hour!” she exclaimed. Then looking hard at Prissie, she continued in an anxious tone—
“You are not going to attend any lectures this afternoon, are you, Miss Peel?”
“No,” answered Priscilla. “Why?”
Rosalind’s blue eyes looked almost pathetic in their pleading.