“I think the shape of her nose is just perfect!” declared Francie Sheppard. “And I like that Rossetti mouth, although some people might say it’s too big. I wish I had auburn hair!”
“I wonder if it ripples naturally, or if she does it up in wavers?” speculated Elsie Bartlett. “It must be ever so long when it’s down. Annie Turner saw her once in her dressing-gown, and said that her hair reached to her knees.”
“But Annie always exaggerates,” put in Sylvia Page. “You may take half a yard off Annie’s statements any day.”
“I think Duckie’s a sport!” agreed Laura Norris.
The girls were lounging in various attitudes of comfort round the fire in their sitting-room at St. Elgiva’s, in that blissful interval between preparation and supper, when nothing very intellectual was expected from them, and they might amuse themselves as they wished. Irene, squatting on the rug, was armed with the tongs, and kept poking down the miniature volcanoes that arose in the coal; Elsie luxuriated in the rocking-chair all to herself; while Francie and Sylvia—a tight fit—shared the big basket-chair. In a corner three chums were coaching each other in the speeches for a play, and a group collected round the piano were trying the chorus of a new popular song.
“Go it, Patricia!” called Irene to the girl who was playing the accompaniment. “You did that no end! St. Elgiva’s ought to have a chance for the sight-reading competition. Trot out that song to-morrow night by all means. It’ll take the house by storm!”
“What’s going to happen to-morrow night?” enquired Marjorie, who, having changed her dress for supper, now came into the room and joined the circle by the fire.
“A very important event, my good child,” vouchsafed Francie Sheppard—”an event upon which you might almost say all the rest of the school year hangs. We call it the Talents Tournament.”
“The what?”
“I wish you wouldn’t ask so many questions. I was just going to explain, if you’ll give me time. The whole school meets in the Assembly Hall, and anybody who feels she can do anything may give us a specimen of her talents, and if she passes muster she’s allowed to join one of the societies—the Dramatic, or the Part Singing, or the Orchestra, or the French Conversational; or she may exhibit specimens if she wants to enter the Natural History or Scientific, or show some of her drawings if she’s artistic.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I? Nothing at all. I hate showing off!”
“I’ve no ‘parlour tricks’ either,” yawned Laura. “I shall help to form the audience and do the clapping; that’s the rôle I’m best at.”
“Old Mollie’ll put you up to tips if you’re yearning to go on the platform,” suggested Elsie. “She’s A 1 at recitations, reels them off no end, I can tell you. You needn’t hang your head, Mollums, like a modest violet; it’s a solid fact. You’re the ornament of St. Elgiva’s when it comes to saying pieces. Have you got anything fresh, by the way, for to-morrow night?”
“Well, I did learn something new during the holidays,” confessed Mollie. “I hope you’ll like it—it’s rather funny. I hear there’s to be a new society this term. Meg Hutchinson was telling me about it.”
“Oh, I know, the ‘Charades’!” interrupted Francie; “and a jolly good idea too. It isn’t everybody who has time to swat at learning parts for the Dramatic. Besides, some girls can do rehearsed acting well, and are no good at impromptu things, and vice versa. They want sorting out.”
“I don’t understand,” said Marjorie.
“Oh, bother you! You’re always wanting explanations. Well, of course you know we have a Dramatic Society that gets up quite elaborate plays; the members spend ages practising their speeches and studying their attitudes before the looking-glass, and they have gorgeous costumes made for them, and scenery and all the rest of it—a really first-rate business. Some of the prefects thought that it was rather too formal an affair, and suggested another society for impromptu acting. Nothing is to be prepared beforehand. Mrs. Morrison is to give a word for a charade, and the members are allowed two minutes to talk it over, and must act it right away with any costumes they can fling on out of the ‘property box’. They’ll be arranged in teams, and may each have five minutes for a performance. I expect it will be a scream.”
“Are you fond of acting, Marjorie?” asked Mollie.
“I just love it!”
“Then put down your name for the Charades Tournament. We haven’t got a great number of volunteers from St. Elgiva’s yet. Most of the girls seem to funk it. Elsie, aren’t you going to try?”
Elsie shook her curls regretfully.
“I’d like to, but I know every idea I have would desert me directly I faced an audience. I’m all right with a definite part that I’ve got into my head, but I can’t make up as I go along, and it’s no use asking me. I’d only bungle and stammer, and make an utter goose of myself, and spoil the whole thing. Hallo! There’s the supper bell. Come along!”
Marjorie followed the others in to supper with a feeling of exhilaration. She was immensely attracted by the idea of the Talents Tournament. So far, as a new girl, she had been little noticed, and had had no opportunity of showing what she could do. She had received a hint from Mollie, on her first day, that new girls who pushed themselves forward would probably be met with snubs, so she had not tried the piano in the sitting-room, or given any exhibition of her capabilities unasked. This, however, would be a legitimate occasion, and nobody could accuse her of trying to show off by merely entering her name in the Charades competition.
“I wish Dona would play her violin and have a shy for the school Orchestra,” she thought. “I’ll speak to her if I can catch her after supper.”
It was difficult for the sisters to find any time for private talk, but by dodging about the passage Marjorie managed to waylay Dona before the latter disappeared into St. Ethelberta’s, and propounded her suggestion.
“Oh, I couldn’t!” replied Dona in horror. “Go on the platform and play a piece? I’d die! Please don’t ask me to do anything so dreadful. I don’t want to join the Orchestra. Oh, well, yes—I’ll go in for the drawing competition if you like, but I’m not keen. I don’t care about all these societies; my lessons are quite bad enough. I’ve made friends with Ailsa Donald, and we have lovely times all to ourselves. We’re making scrap albums for the hospital. Miss Jones has given us all her old Christmas cards. She’s adorable! I say, I must go, or I shall be late for our call over. Ta-ta!”
The “Talents Tournament” was really a very important event in the school year, for upon its results would depend the placing of the various competitors in certain coveted offices. It was esteemed a great privilege to be asked to join the Orchestra, and to be included in the committee of the “Dramatic” marked a girl’s name with a lucky star.
On the Saturday evening in question the whole school, in second-best party dresses, met in the big Assembly Hall. It was a conventional occasion, and they were received by Mrs. Morrison and the teachers, and responded with an elaborate politeness that was the cult of the College. For the space of three hours an extremely high-toned atmosphere prevailed, not a word of slang offended the ear, and everybody behaved with the dignity and courtesy demanded by such a stately ceremony. Mrs. Morrison, in black silk and old lace, her white hair dressed high, was an imposing figure, and set a standard of cultured deportment that was copied by every girl in the room. The Brackenfielders prided themselves upon their manners, and, though they might relapse in the playground or dormitory, no Court etiquette could be stricter than their code for public occasions. The hall was quite en fête; it had been charmingly