“No, Annie. Of course you have a right to sit here, but I do hope you will keep quiet. I am busy writing my prize essay—not that I have a chance of the prize, but of course I want to do my very best. The subject interests me.”
Annie said nothing. She flung herself into a chair, and taking up a story-book, tried to read. But her thoughts were too busy with the scheme which was forming itself in her brain. She threw down the book, and drawing her chair to the opposite window, looked out.
Constance Hadley seemed to feel her presence, for after a time she sank back in her chair with a sigh.
“Finished, Constance?” cried Annie.
“No; I can’t manage the end. I want to do something really good, but the something won’t come.”
“I wonder you bother,” said Annie; “that is, of course, unless you are sure of the prize.”
“I sure of the prize!” laughed Constance. “Why, there are at least four girls in the school who will do better work than I. You, for instance, Annie; you have an audacious, smart little way of writing which very often takes.”
“But I can do nothing with such a subject as ‘Idealism,’” replied Annie, “except to laugh at it and thank my stars that I have not got it.”
Constance looked at her gravely.
“I wonder who will get the prize,” she said.