Mabel found herself turning pale, and Constance, who was a remarkably keen observer of character, noted the fact. Annie was nowhere within reach. Mabel began to feel as though a torture-screw were put on.
“Come, Mabel,” said Constance, “it is but fair. We love poetry, and will not be hard on you.”
“What I think is this,” said another girl. “Mabel is a satirist; she has been laughing at us all in her sleeve. She writes about us, and doesn’t want us to know.—Come, May, I know that is the case, otherwise you would not be so red.”
“She was pale a minute ago,” said Constance.—“What are you changing colour about, you silly old May? We won’t mind whether you satirise us or not. Come, get your verses.”
“I—I—can’t; I—won’t,” said Mabel. She had not an idea what the girls meant when they spoke of her as a satirist. She wished herself far away. As she said afterwards, she could have sunk through the ground at that moment. Her tortures were at their height when Annie Brooke appeared. Annie and Priscilla were crossing the lawn arm-in-arm. Annie had been talking eagerly. Priscilla, very grave and quiet, was replying in monosyllables. Suddenly Priscilla looked up.
“What is the matter with Mabel?” she said.
“How queer she looks!”
“I had best go to her, I suppose,” said Annie. “She is such an old silly that unless I keep by her side she is sure to do some thing wrong.”
“Here you are, Annie,” cried Constance. “Now you will be on our side. You have assured us that Mabel is not the dunce of the school, but the genius.”
“So she is,” said Annie indignantly. “Who dares to deny it?”