"How long is he going to stop in England, Ferlie?"
"Only six months this time. Father and Mum never take such short leave, but Cyprian has had malaria..."
"It's a beautiful name," mused Doris with upturned eyes. "No wonder she blushes!"
"Silly ass!"
"What beats me," said Margery, "is how Martha and Mary allow Ferlie to gad about with a genuine trousered male in an expensive tailored suit and all the appurtenances thereof. Because even if he does look forty he's not really your uncle, is he, Ferlie?"
"No, thank the Lord! I shouldn't feel nearly so comfy with him if he were."
"She confesses to feeling comfy with him," Margery informed the others. "Brazen hussy! And she a 'Sunlight Fairy'!"
Ferlie forgot Cyprian in a sudden righteous indignation. "You shut it, Margery! Lot of grinning shriekers! Thought yourselves very funny, didn't you? You wouldn't laugh if it were your mess."
For Ferlie's instinctive courtesy, rooted in a horror of hurting people's feelings and combined with a certain dreamy trustfulness in human nature, characteristic of her, had landed her in a false position which, during the past week, had been the joke of the school.
A dean's wife, far-famed for excellent work among the business girls of the suburbs, and convinced that the road to salvation for all budding womanhood lay via the fold of a Purity Society organized by her, had now conceived the idea of interesting the girls' schools in a campaign of mutual prayer and interchange of friendly letters with these unknown female correspondents of the working-class, all virgin pilgrims up the Hill of Difficulty, pledged not to permit male travellers to carry their bundles nor waste their time in frivolous communications. The Misses Mayne, generally known to their pupils, in terms of disrespectful affection, as "Martha" and "Mary," approved of the plan and accorded the dean's wife half an hour one Sunday afternoon, following Bible Class, to set forth her appeal for supporters in the school.