"I didn't take any notes. I'll copy my roommate's. You see we have to write a theme about our visit. Miss Byers prides herself on the girls of Grace being so well-informed. I know. I'll put you into it. That'll be fun. Only you'll have to tell me something about yourself. How old are you? Do you go to a regular school and play with other girls like any ordinary girl?" Sidney flushed at the other's manner and found her tongue in an instinctive desire to defend her lot. "Of course I go to school. It's sort of a boarding school, only all the girls go home nights. And I do everything the others do. And I am fifteen." "I didn't mean to offend you. I thought perhaps a poet's daughter was different. If you don't mind in my theme I'll _make_ you different--pale and thin, with curly hair in a cloud, and faraway eyes--" "That's like Isolde, my oldest sister, the one who usually tells the 'precious and personal anecdotes.' I wasn't really offended--and I'll admit most of the girls do treat me a little bit differently--but that's Miss Downs' fault; she won't let them forget that I am Joseph Romley's daughter. She uses it all the time in her catalogue and when any visitors come to the school it's dreadful--" "If you don't like it why don't you come to Grace Hall? We'd have no end of fun--" "Gracious, I've never been _any_where. I only go to Miss Downs' because it's here at Middletown and because she gives me my tuition on account of Dad--" Sidney bit off her words in a sudden panic lest her admission of poverty shock this lovely creature. It had not, however. The dove-gray eyes had softened again with pity. "Oh, I see. Of course, poets are always poor. I supposed they usually lived in garrets. I nearly flopped when I saw this big house!" This to comfort Sidney. "Well, it's too bad you _can't_ go to Grace. I like the riding best. I have my own horse. Gypsy. She's a darling. My roommate is the cutest thing. She's captain of the hockey team and her picture was in the _New York Times_. Her mother made a dreadful fuss about it but it was too late. And she got a letter from a boy in New York who'd seen the picture--the most exciting letter--" "Oh, _here_ you are, Pola," cried a voice behind them and a tall girl elbowed Sidney back into her corner. "Say, Byers will be here at least a half an hour longer. We'll have time for a dope at that store we passed, if we hurry!" All boredom vanished, the girl Pola sprang to her feet. She paused only long enough to hold out her hand to Sidney. "Don't tell anyone that I don't like Betty Sweets best of all the candy in the world, will you?" she laughed. "And I won't tell anyone that you loathe poetry." Then she ran after the tall girl. Sidney felt engulfed in a great and terrible loneliness.