But by the last Sunday evening, Clare's piles of reports and examination papers had disappeared, and she was free to lie at ease on her sofa, and to laugh at Alwynne, still immersed in exercise books, and tantalise her with airy plans for the long, delicious holidays. It had been, in spite of the season, a day of rain and cold winds. The skies had cleared at the sunset, with its red promise of fine weather once more, but the remnant of a fire still smouldered on the hearth. Alwynne was flushed with the interest of her work, but ever and again Clare shivered, and pulled the quilted sofa-wrap more closely about her. She wished that Alwynne would be quick.... Surely Alwynne could finish off her work some other time.... It wouldn't hurt her to get up early for once, for that matter.... She was bored.... She was dull.... She wanted amusement.... She wanted Alwynne, and attention, and affection, and a little butterfly kiss or two.... Alwynne ought to be awake to the fact that she was wanted.... She watched her, between fretfulness and affection, æsthetically appreciative of the big young body in the lavender frock, and the crown of shining hair, pleased with her property, intensely impatient of its interest in anything but herself. "Alwynne----?" There was a hint of neglect in her voice. Alwynne beamed, but her eyes were abstracted. "Only another half-hour, Clare. I must just finish these. You don't mind, do you?" "I? Mind?" Clare laughed elaborately. She picked up a book, and there was silence once more. Leaves fluttered and a pen scraped. The light began to fade. Suddenly Alwynne gave a smothered exclamation. Clare looked up and pulled herself upright, angry enough. "Alwynne! Your carelessness--you've dropped your wet pen on my carpet. It's too bad." Alwynne groped hastily beneath the table. But even the prolonged stooping had not brought back the colour to her cheek, as she replaced her pen on the stand. "I'm sorry. I was startled. It hasn't marked it. Clare--just listen to this." "What have you got hold of?" demanded Clare irritably. She disliked spots and spillings and mess, as Alwynne might know. "It's Louise's composition book. I always wondered where it had got to, when I cleared out her desk. It must have lain about and got collected in with the rest, yesterday." "Well?" said Clare, with a show of indifference. "Here's that essay on King John and his times. Do you remember? You gave it to them to do just before the play. It's not corrected. Not finished." She hesitated. "Clare! It's rather queer." "Is it any good?" said Clare meditatively. "What for?" "The School Magazine. We're short of copy. The child wrote well. But I suppose it wouldn't do to use it--though I don't see why not." Suddenly Alwynne began to read aloud.