Some of the girls laughed. One of them--the hungry girl who had counted the strokes of the clock--took Francine’s part. “Never mind their laughing, Miss de Sor. You are quite right, you have good reason to complain of us.” Miss de Sor dried her eyes. “Thank you--whoever you are,” she answered briskly. “My name is Cecilia Wyvil,” the other proceeded. “It was not, perhaps, quite nice of you to say you hated us all. At the same time we have forgotten our good breeding--and the least we can do is to beg your pardon.” This expression of generous sentiment appeared to have an irritating effect on the peremptory young person who took the lead in the room. Perhaps she disapproved of free trade in generous sentiment. “I can tell you one thing, Cecilia,” she said; “you shan’t beat ME in generosity. Strike a light, one of you, and lay the blame on me if Miss Ladd finds us out. I mean to shake hands with the new girl--and how can I do it in the dark? Miss de Sor, my name’s Brown, and I’m queen of the bedroom. I--not Cecilia--offer our apologies if we have offended you. Cecilia is my dearest friend, but I don’t allow her to take the lead in the room. Oh, what a lovely nightgown!” The sudden flow of candle-light had revealed Francine, sitting up in her bed, and displaying such treasures of real lace over her bosom that the queen lost all sense of royal dignity in irrepressible admiration. “Seven and sixpence,” Emily remarked, looking at her own night-gown and despising it. One after another, the girls yielded to the attraction of the wonderful lace. Slim and plump, fair and dark, they circled round the new pupil in their flowing white robes, and arrived by common consent at one and the same conclusion: “How rich her father must be!” Favored by fortune in the matter of money, was this enviable person possessed of beauty as well?