“What do you want to say to me?” said Evelyn. “Why do you look so mysterious?”
“I want to say something—something which I must say. Evelyn, do not ask me any questions, but do just listen. You know what is going to happen to-morrow morning at school?”
“Lessons, I suppose,” said Evelyn.
“Please don’t be silly; you must know what I mean.”
“Oh, you allude to the row about that stupid, stupid book. What a fuss! I used to think I liked school, but I don’t now. I am sure mistresses don’t go on in that silly way in Tasmania, for mothery said she loved school. Oh, the fun she had at school! Stolen parties in the attics; suppers brought in clandestinely; lessons shirked! Oh dear! oh dear! she had a time of excitement. But at this school you are all so proper! I do really think you English girls have no spunk and no spirit.”
“But I’ll tell you what we have,” said Audrey; and she turned and faced her cousin. “We have honor; we have truth. We like to work straight, not crooked; we like to do right, not wrong. Yes, we do, and we are the better for it. That is what we English girls are. Don’t abuse us, Evelyn, for in your heart of hearts—yes, Evelyn, I repeat it—in your heart of hearts you must long to be one of us.”
There was something in Audrey’s tone which startled Evelyn.
“How like Uncle Edward you look!” she said; and perhaps she could not have paid her cousin a higher compliment.
The look which for just a moment flitted across the queer little face of the Tasmanian girl upset Audrey. She struggled to retain her composure, but the next moment burst into tears.
“Oh dear!” said Evelyn, who hated people who cried, “what is the matter?”