“You know it isn’t that I’d rather, Imogene; but Virginia and I made an agreement that I’d teach her some tennis serves, and she’d teach me to ride. She’s given me two lessons already, and now that the indoor courts are fixed I thought we’d play this afternoon, that’s all.” “Go and play then. Don’t mind me. I’m comfortable!” Dorothy was silent for a moment. “I don’t see why you dislike Virginia so, Imogene,” she said at last. “Dislike her? I don’t dislike her, or like her either for that matter. I don’t care one way or the other. My friends have never been brought up in the backwoods, and don’t weep over dead cow-boys; but, of course, you’re at liberty to choose yours wherever you like.” The sarcasm in Imogene’s tone was biting. Dorothy struggled with a strong desire to defend Virginia, and another as strong to keep in Imogene’s favor. Completely ashamed of herself, she said nothing, and Imogene mercifully changed the subject. “Has our Dutch aristocrat returned your penknife?” “Not yet. How about your hammer?” “I haven’t seen it since she borrowed it, and I’ve ruined my nail-file trying to open the box of cake mother sent. She has her nerve! I found this on my desk this afternoon.” She showed Dorothy a slip of paper on which was written in a heavy black hand: “Have borrowed your ink for the afternoon. “K. van R.” “You don’t mean to say she came in when there was no one here, and just took it!” gasped Dorothy. “Oh, Vivian was here, I guess, but Viv hasn’t the nerve of a rabbit. If Her Highness had chosen to take the room, Viv would have gone along. But I’m going to do something very soon. I’m sick of this!” An imperious knock sounded on the door, and without waiting to be bidden, the knocker entered. It was Miss Van Rensaelar herself, who, late in coming to St. Helen’s, had arrived two weeks before. She was dressed in dark blue velvet with ermine furs, and looked undeniably handsome, with her blue eyes and faultless complexion. In one white-gloved hand she gingerly held an ink-bottle, which she extended. “Here is your ink,” she announced somewhat haughtily. “I’m sure I’m obliged. I forgot the hammer, but you can get it from my room if you need it. I go to the city for dinner. Good-by.” Imogene did not rise. “Good-by,” she said in a tone which quite matched Miss Van Rensaelar’s. “You might have the goodness to place the ink on my desk. It belongs there.” “Indeed!” Miss Van Rensaelar sniffed the air, but crossed the room with the ink-bottle, which she deposited upon the desk. Then she crossed again, her head a trifle higher if possible, and went out the door, which she left wide open. Imogene was furious. She rose from the couch to give vent to her feelings by slamming the door, but encountered Priscilla and Virginia just about to enter. Had she not wished to share her rage, she might not have been so gracious. “Come in,” she said, “and hear the latest!”