“It is horrible—quite too horrible even to think about,” was Priscilla’s response.
“But you said you didn’t care about the prize.”
“No; but I do care about honour. I am bad, but I am not as bad as all that.”
“Well,” said Annie, a little frightened at Priscilla’s manner and the look on her face, “the whole thing can do me no good; I don’t profit by it. I have got to stay at school, nolens volens; and I think I should prefer Mabel as my greatest friend for the next twelve months to you. You won’t say anything about it, Priscie, for that would indeed be to ruin me, and I only meant to make you both happy.”
“Oh, of course I won’t tell,” said Priscilla. “I shall be leaving school in a fortnight, and then you won’t ever see me again. I can promise you to keep quiet with regard to this proposal of yours for that time.”
“Very well,” said Annie; “then that is all right. I will tell poor Mabel.”
“You don’t mean that you have suggested the thing to her?”
“Not exactly, but I have hinted at it—I mean at something—and she is very much interested. I’ll have to tell her that my little scheme is up a tree. Poor old Mabel! She is such a dear, too. We shall be glad to keep her at school.”
“Really, Annie, you are too extraordinary. Have you written a paper for the literature prize yourself?”
“I? Oh yes. But I have no imagination; not a bit. The subject is ‘Idealism’—such an odious, impossible subject; but it has appealed to you.”