“For, only think!” said Vera. “She won’t let us have new hats, but only did up the old ones, and not with feathers, though there is such a love at Tebbitts’s at Rockstone.” “She says it is cruel,” said Paula. “Cruel to me, I am sure; and what difference does it make when the birds are once killed?” “Well, she did give us those lovely wreaths of lilies,” said Paula. “Of course, but nothing to make them stylish! What’s the good of being out if one is to have nothing _chic_? And she won’t let me have a hockey outfit. She says she must see more of it to be able to judge whether to let us play!” “That just means seeing whether her dear Merrifields do,” said Paula. “Gillian did at St. Catherine’s. But you will know soon. Did I not hear something about a garden party?” “Oh, yes; she is talking of one, but it will be all swells and croquet, and deadly dull.” “I thought you seemed to be getting on well with the swells, if you mean the Merrifields, especially Wilfred, if that is his name.” “Bil—Bil! Oh, he is all very well,” said Vera, “if he would not be always so silly and come after me! As if I cared!” “And only think,” said Paula, “that she was going to have it on the very day that St. Milburga’s Guild has their festival! Just as if it was on purpose!” “Did you ask her to keep clear of your engagements?” “I told her, but I don’t think she listened.” And as another grievance suggested itself to Vera, she declared, “And she won’t let us join the Girls’ Magazine Club, because she saw one she didn’t like on somebody’s table. As if we were little babies!” “She won’t let us order books at the library, but gets such awfully slow ones,” chimed in Paula, “or only baby stories fit for Thekla. She made me return that book dear Sister Mena lent me, because she said it was Roman Catholic.” “And hasn’t she got Thomas à Kempis on her table? and I’m sure he was Roman Catholic. There’s consistency!” “You don’t understand,” began Agatha. “He was a great Saint before the Catholics became so Roman.” “Oh, never mind! It is anything to thwart us,” cried Vera. “It is ever so much worse than school.” “But,” began Agatha, and the tone of consideration to that one conjunction caused an outburst. “Oh, Nag, Nag, if you are gone over to the enemy, what will life be worth?” As that terrible question was propounded, in burst Thekla with, “Oh, Nag, Nag, they are cutting the hay in the high torr field, and sister says we may go and see them before I read my French.” “Oh!” cried Vera, with a prolongation into a groan, “is she going to be tiresome?” “She has come to be quite a don,” said Paula; “but never mind, we will soon make her all right again.”