There was a moment's embarrassed silence, and Marjorie's heart began to beat very fast; then Elsie spoke.
"They were all very silly," she said, indifferently. "I told Lulu it was nonsense having all the girls write poems."
"Whose poem was the best?" Mr. Carleton asked.
"They made me president of the Club," said Elsie, her eyes bent on her plate; "my poem got the most votes."
"I was sure it would," murmured Mrs. Carleton, with an adoring glance at her clever daughter. "Why didn't you tell us about it before, darling—you knew how interested we would be?"
"Let me see the poem," said Mr. Carleton, good-naturedly; "I should like to judge its merits for myself."
"I can't; I've torn it up." Elsie tried to speak in a tone of complete indifference, but her cheeks were crimson, and her father watched her curiously.
"My darling child, how very foolish!" remonstrated Mrs. Carleton. "You know your father and I always want to see everything you write. Why in the world did you tear it up?"
"Oh, it wasn't any good," said Elsie, with an uneasy glance at Marjorie; "some of the girls thought Lulu's poem was better."
"I don't believe it was, though," Mrs. Carleton maintained with conviction. "Wasn't Elsie's poem much the best, Marjorie?"