"Of course I promise. And I'll write if you will."
"I'll write," said Ferlie, "when I have things to say." A sensible resolution which might be more widely adhered to.
Cyprian carried away with him the memory of delicate hands, laughing eyes and a poignantly sweet voice ... a memory which left the same ache as does a solitary aloof star on a summer evening.
But always it was followed by the haunting comfort of Ferlie's clinging arms.
CHAPTER III
"French is to be talked from the time the rising-bell rings in the morning to the time the dressing-bell rings for supper at night."
So ran Rule 9, at St. Dorothea's Home School for Girls. It was relaxed on Saturdays at twelve after the hour in the gymnasium.
At ten minutes to twelve the gloomy cavern, known as the Glory Hole, rang with noise which, according to the ancient series of L. T. Meade's school-stories, stocking the library, should have been punctuated with "silvery ripples of girlish laughter." It wasn't. The parrot-house at the Zoo would have been nearer the mark. A harassed prefect presided, noting the names of people who insisted on forestalling the cuckoo-clock.
"Parlez-vous Français, Margery, ou je dirai Mademoiselle."