“We’ll ask her.”
“She might be editor.”
“She could write a lovely story herself.”
“Bertha could illustrate. She draws the killingest pictures. There was one of the fifth dormitory at 6 a.m. You saw all the girls asleep, and their heads were killing. Amy had a top-knot that had fallen on one side, Phyllis a pigtail about two inches long, and as thin as a string. You know her miserable little wisp of hair. Mary was lying on her back with her mouth wide open. It was the image of her. She’s nearly as good as Hilda Cowham. We might call her ‘Hilda Cowman’ as a nom de plume. Wouldn’t it look professional?”
Dreda was a trifle annoyed that the position of editor had not been offered to herself as the originator of the movement, and she likewise cherished the belief that she was entitled to take a prominent place as illustrator; but she consoled herself with the reflection that when the magazine was really started her previous experience could not fail to be useful.
“We’ll have stories, and essays, and poetry, and competitions, and advertisements at the end. You have to pay for advertisements, and that pays for stationery.”
“What sort of advertisements?”
“Every sort. Exchanging stamps and post cards, selling snapshots—anything you like. I should put: ‘Fifth form pupil will coach junior for ten minutes daily in exchange for fagging: hot water, sewing on buttons, darning, etcetera.’ I’m not used to mending. It’s the limit! What shall we call it?”
“The magazine? The Grey House Monthly—Messenger—Herald—something of that kind. We ought to bring in the name of the school.”
“I don’t see why. I think it would be nicer without. Less amateury. The—Casket. Wouldn’t Casket be good? It implies that it is full of treasures.”