“It must be something that will always reflect credit on the Salisbury School,” observed Alexia, leaning her chin on her hand while she played with her pencil.
“Ugh! do be still.” Lucy, on the other side, nudged her. “I can't think, if anybody speaks a word.”
“And fit in well with those old portraits,” said Clem, with a look at Alexia.
“Well, I hope and pray that we won't give her anything old. I want it spick, span, new; and to be absolutely up-to-date.” Alexia took her chin out of her hand, and sat up decidedly. “The idea of matching up those mouldy old portraits!—and that house just bursting with antiques.”
“Ugh! do hush,” cried the girls.
“And write what you want to, Alexia, on your own slip, and keep still,” said Silvia, wrinkling her brows; “you just put something out of my head; and it was perfectly splendid.”
“But I can't think of a thing that would be good enough,” grumbled Alexia, “for the Salisbury School to give. Oh dear me!” and she regarded enviously the other pencils scribbling away.
“My list is done.” Amy Garrett pinched hers into a little three-cornered note, and threw it into Polly's lap.
“And mine—and mine.” They all came in fast in a small white shower.
“Oh my goodness!” exclaimed Alexia, much alarmed that she would be left out altogether. “Wait, Chairman—I mean, Polly,” and she began scribbling away for dear life.