“What are you going as, Amelia?” asked the fourth girl, the lively, apple-cheeked Dolly Webster. The poetess looked up dreamily.
“As Sappho,” she replied. Mrs. Deacon looked astonished, and interested.
“Sappho, my dear? How will you do that? Sappho was a race-horse!”
There was an irrepressible chuckle from the window embrasure, where, concealed by the long, dark-red curtains, Jane was curled, with a book, and a half-sucked orange.
Mrs. Deacon turned swiftly, her lorgnette levelled on the younger Miss Lambert like a microscope.
“Ah, Jane!” she observed a little coldly. Jane stood up respectfully, concealing her vulgar orange under her pinafore. “What are you laughing at, my dear?” asked Mrs. Deacon suspiciously.
“I thought it would be funny for Amelia to go as a race-horse,” replied Jane, simply, quite at her ease under Mrs. Deacon’s prolonged stare. Amelia, who took herself very seriously, and hated to appear in a ridiculous light even for a moment, said rather indignantly,
“A race-horse! Sappho was a poetess.”
“Ah, of course!” said Mrs. Deacon hastily, “that will be charming. And so well chosen. How will you signify yourself?”
“I am going to wear a simple Grecian robe of white muslin, with laurel leaves in my hair. And I shall carry a lyre,” replied Amelia. “I thought I would let my hair hang loose.”