Lucile’s black eyes snapped. She pushed her paper away, and went to the closet, murmuring something in French under her breath that sounded very much like “Vive la France!”
Virginia’s eyes fell on the crumpled and dog-eared piece of paper.
“Why, haven’t you more than that done, Lucile? They have to be given to Miss Wallace to-morrow!”
The angry Lucile stamped her foot. This was quite too much to be borne. She was sick and tired of the Pilgrim Fathers, and all their patronizing descendants.
“No, I haven’t,” she cried. “And you needn’t act as though you knew so much, Virginia Hunter, just because you can write compositions. You’re out of it easy just because you’ve lived way out in the woods, and know all about Indians and wild animals. But I’ve lived in Paris, and there’s a great difference between Wyoming and Paris, I’ll have you to know!”
The scorn in Lucile’s voice was not to be mistaken; but Virginia was equal to the occasion.
“Yes, of course there is a great difference,” she said. “You see, Paris is frightfully small compared to Wyoming—I don’t mean in size, you know, but in the way people look at things. In Paris, for instance, one thinks about clothes and a good time and gayety; and in the mountains you’d feel mean thinking about such frivolous things.”
Dorothy and Priscilla laughed, but Lucile grew angrier as Virginia continued sweetly,
“But I really wrote one on the Pilgrim Fathers, too, Lucile. Priscilla and I both did, and then tried to thrill each other by giving them. Would you like to hear mine? I have it right here in my blouse pocket.”
Lucile’s mind, slow to originate, was quick to grasp, and tenacious to retain. An idea came to her with Virginia’s question, but she was too irritated to appear as eager as she really was to hear the oration. Here might be a way out of her difficulty. She brushed her sweater leisurely.