Fanny laughed. “I think not,” she said. “I think, without any undue pride, that my position in the school is sufficiently strong to prevent such a catastrophe. No; you would be cutting off your nose to spite your face—that is all you would be doing with this nice little scheme of yours. Give it up, Sibyl, and you shall come to Brighton.”
“It is dull at home at Christmas,” said Sibyl. “We are so dreadfully poor, and father has such a lot to do; and there are always those half-starved, smelly sort of people coming to the house—the sort that want coal-tickets, you know, and grocery-tickets; and—and—we have to help to give great big Christmas dinners. We are all day long getting up entertainments for those dull sort of people. I often think they are not a bit grateful, and after being at a school like this I really feel quite squeamish about them.”
Fanny laughed. She saw, or believed she saw, that her cause was won. “You’ll have nothing to make you squeamish at Aunt Amelia’s,” she said. “And now I must say good-night. Sorry about the Specialities; but, after the little exhibition you have just made of yourself, I agree with the other girls that you are not fit to be a member. Now, ta-ta for the present.”
CHAPTER XIX
“IT’S DICKIE!”
Fanny went straight to her own room. “What a nasty time I have lived through!” she thought as she was about to enter. Then she opened the door and started back.
The whole room had undergone a metamorphosis. There was a shaded light in one corner, and the door between Fanny’s room and Betty’s was thrown open. A grave, kind-looking nurse was seated by a table, on which was a shaded lamp; and on seeing Fanny enter she held up her hand with a warning gesture. The next minute she had beckoned the girl out on the landing.
“What is the meaning of this?” asked Fanny. “What are you doing in my room?”