Mabel lay back on her pillow. “I did get an awful fright,” she said. “I can’t tell you how terrible it was when they all clustered round me, and Agnes remarked one thing about me, and Constance another. Agnes said I was a satirist. What on earth is a satirist, Annie?”
“Oh, not you, darling, at any rate,” said Annie, kissing her friend. “Poor May! that is the very last thing you could ever be.”
“I know you think me very stupid,” said Mabel in an offended tone. “It is too awful to give a girl the imputation of a genius, when you know all the time that she is an absolute fool.”
“A very pretty one, at any rate,” said Annie, kissing her friend again. “You’re not offended, silly May, because I said you were not a satirist? Why, a satirist is an awful creature, dreaded by everybody. A satirist is a person who makes fun of her best friends. Now, you would never make fun of your own Annie, would you?”
“No, indeed! I am glad I am not a satirist,” said May. “What a horror those girls must think me!”
“Go to by-by now, May, and leave me to settle things for you,” said Annie; and she crept back to her own bed.