She glared at the twins, capering safely in the distance, soaked and cheerful. Certainly, there was nothing about them that suggested prefectorial dignity. They danced in a manner only possible in those who have no responsibility.
“I believe you’re right,” laughed Helen. “Anyhow, it’s a good thing it’s match night, or you’d certainly have had Miss Dampier in here. And you three are far too wet to sit up any longer: come and clear up the wreck. Who’s going to dispose of the chicken-bones?”
CHAPTER III
THE LAST DAYS OF TERM
‟YOU didn’t truly mean it, Helen—last night? About being prefects?”
The twins had sought Helen Forester in her study, finding her in the throes of packing up. In itself this was a distressing sight, and induced seriousness. Every one had been proud of the Captain’s pretty room, with its dainty furniture. The big, comfortable couch looked bare, stripped of its Indian rug and the dark-blue cushions embroidered with the School badge. Gone were the photographs—hockey and tennis teams, girls, past and present, Cingalese pictures, and views of Helen’s own people, and of her home in the Western District. Gone, too, were the trophies of her five years at school: silver cups, won in many a hard-fought fight with other schools and other Merriwa champions. Their places looked bare and dismal. In the middle of the room a packing-case yawned widely to receive everything.
Helen, mounted on a table, was detaching a racquet from the wall. She balanced herself on one foot, and the table creaked ominously.
“Sit on the other edge, will you?” she asked with some anxiety. The twins sprang to her aid, and she brought down the racquet in safety. Then she sat on the table and looked at them.
“Mean it? Why, yes, of course I meant it. You can see for yourself, kiddies. There were twelve of us at supper last night, and you were the youngest. Seven of us are leaving. That’s a big loss out of the seniors, isn’t it?”
“But there are other seniors,” said Jean, hopefully. “Ethel Tarrant wasn’t there, nor Janie Frith, nor Doris Harvey.”
“Yes, but look at them. Ethel thinks of nothing in the world but music. She lives with her head in a cloud composed of Chopin and Debussy and Bach. Janie Frith is far too delicate to be counted on, and will never be a prefect. And Doris is queer and prickly, and won’t take part in anything. Not one of them plays games. No, as far as I can see, you two will have to make up your minds to it—not at once, but in six months’ time. You’ll do it, too, all right, because you love the School.”