“She is going to read some of her own poems. Why not?” said Annie. She spoke defiantly.
“Her own poems?” echoed Priscilla, a world of scorn in her voice.
“Yes. Why not?” said Annie.
Priscilla was silent for a minute. Then she said in a very low voice:
“I know how clever you are; but even your genius cannot rise to this. I have seen you struggle to make even the slightest rhyme when we have been playing at making up verses. You can’t manage this.”
“Never mind,” said Annie. She jumped up almost rudely. The next minute she had seized Mabel by the arm. “We have half-an-hour. Come with me at once to my room.”
Mabel did so. When they reached the room Annie locked the door.
“Now then,” she said, “who’s a genius? I said I would find a way out. Sit down immediately before my desk and write what I tell you.”
“Oh Annie, what do you mean?”
“I mean exactly what I say, and the fewer questions you ask the better. I will dictate the poem, and you shall copy it.”