"Angle A equals angle B!" But Joyce, who was a born tease, could no more resist the temptation of baiting Cynthia, than she could have refused a chocolate ice-cream soda, so she continued to make foolish and irrelevant comments on every geometrical statement, until, in sheer exasperation, Cynthia threw the book aside. "It's no use!" she groaned. "You're not in a studying frame of mind, Joyce--certainly not for geometry. I'll go over that myself Monday morning; but what _you're_ going to do about it, I don't know--and I don't much care! But we've got to get through somehow. Let's try the algebra. You always like that. Do you think you could put your mind on it?" "I'll try," grinned Joyce, in feigned contrition. "I'll make the greatest effort. But you don't seem to realize that I'm actually working _very_ hard to-night!" Cynthia opened her algebra, picked out the problem, and read: "'A farmer sold 300 acres--'" when Joyce suddenly interrupted: "Do you know, Cynthia, I heard the most interesting problem the other day. I wonder if you could solve it." "What is it?" asked Cynthia, thankful for any awakening symptom of interest in her difficult friend. "Why, this," repeated Joyce with great gravity. "'If it takes an elephant ten minutes to put on a white vest, how many pancakes will it take to shingle a freight-car?'" Cynthia's indignation was rapidly waxing hotter but she made one more tremendous effort to control it. "Joyce, I told you that I was serious about this studying." "But so am I!" insisted the wicked Joyce. "Now let's try to work that out. Let _x_ equal the number of pancakes--" The end of Cynthia's patience had come, however. She pushed the books aside. "Joyce Kenway, you are--_abominable_! I wish you would go home!" "Well, I won't!" retorted Joyce, giggling inwardly, "but I'll leave you to your own devices, if you like!" And she rose from the table, walked with great dignity to a distant rocking-chair, seated herself in it, and pretended to read the daily paper which she had removed from its seat. From time to time she glanced covertly in Cynthia's direction. But there was no sign of relenting in that young lady. She was, indeed, too deeply indignant, and, moreover, had immersed herself in her work. Presently Joyce gave up trying to attract her attention, and began to read the paper in real earnest,--a thing which she seldom had the time or the interest to do. There was a long silence in the room, broken only by the scratch of Cynthia's pencil or the rustling of a turned page. Suddenly Joyce looked up. "Cynthia!" she began. Her voice sounded different now. It had lost its teasing tone and seemed a little muffled. But Cynthia was obdurate. "I don't want to talk to you!" she reiterated. "I wish you'd go home!" "Very well, Cynthia, I will!" answered Joyce, quietly. And she gathered up her books and belongings, giving her friend a queer look as she left the room without another word.