Alice, however, had not found any sweetness in Connie.  Was it because Mr. Herbert Pryce seemed to take a mysterious pleasure in pointing out her, charms to Alice?  Alice supposed he meant it well.  There was a didactic element in him which was always leading him to try and improve other people.  But it filled her with a silent fury.

“Is everybody coming to the picnic to-morrow?” asked Mrs. Hooper presently.

“Everybody.”  Alice pointed indifferently to a pile of notes lying on her desk.

“You asked Connie if we should invite Mr. Falloden?”

“Of course I did, mother.  He is away till next week.”

“I wonder if she cares for him?” said Mrs. Hooper vaguely.

Alice laughed.

“If she does, she consoles herself pretty well, when he’s not here.”

“You mean with Mr. Sorell?”

Alice nodded.

“Such a ridiculous pretence, those Greek lessons!” she said, her small face flaming.  “Nora says, after they have done a few lines, Constance begins to talk, and Mr. Sorell throws himself back in his chair, and they chatter about the places they’ve seen together, and the people they remember, till there’s no more time left.  Nora says it’s a farce.”

“I say, who’s taking my name in vain?” said Nora, who had just opened the schoolroom door and overheard the last sentence.

“Come in and shut the door,” said Alice, “we were talking about your Greek lessons.”

“Jolly fun they are!” said Nora, balancing herself, as usual, on the window-sill.  “We don’t do much Greek, but that don’t matter!  What are these notes, mother?”

Mrs. Hooper handed them over.  Alice threw a mocking look at her sister.

“Who said that Oxford didn’t care about titles?  When did any of those people ever take any notice of us?”

“It isn’t titles—­it’s Connie!” said Nora stoutly.  “It’s because she’s handsome and clever—­and yet she isn’t conceited; she’s always interested in other people.  And she’s an orphan—­and people were very fond of her mother.  And she talks scrumptiously about Italy.  And she’s new—­and there’s a bit of romance in it—­and—­well, there it is!”

And Nora pulled off a twig from the banksia rose outside, and began to chew it energetically with her firm white teeth, by way of assisting her thoughts.

“Isn’t conceited!” repeated Alice with contempt.  “Connie is as proud as Lucifer.”

“I didn’t say she wasn’t.  But she isn’t vain.”

Alice laughed.

“Can’t you see the difference?” said Nora impatiently. “‘Proud’ means ‘Don’t be such a fool as to imagine that I’m thinking of you!’—­’Vain’ means ‘I wonder dreadfully what you’re thinking of me?’”

“Well then, Connie is both proud and vain,” said Alice with decision.

“I don’t mean she doesn’t know she’s rich, and good-looking and run after,” said Nora, beginning to flounder.  “But half the time, anyway, she forgets it.”