Tea was a more or less sketchy meal, at which a junior teacher presided, and Miss Dampier made only a fleeting appearance. No one really wanted to eat; there were still odds and ends of packing to be done, farewells to be said, final touches to be put to preparations for the evening. Moreover, from time immemorial there had been Miss Dampier’s supper for the boarders after the guests had gone, and it was a supper which made tea beforehand seem a mere excrescence. So girls drifted in and out as they liked, and the artistes of the evening brought books or music to the table, studying the fingering of the Moonlight Sonata, or Portia’s remarks on Mercy, while they absently consumed weak tea.
Day-girls concerned with the programme began to arrive soon, and there was much dressing and undressing in studies and bedrooms, with anguished appeals for forgotten burnt-cork and other aids to a good stage-appearance: for there was a little play to be given, and in the eyes of the cast Beethoven and Shakespeare were unimportant details beside it. The twins made a brief but glorious appearance in the play, as Corsican bandits—slim figures in tunics and gym. knickers, with enormous slouch-hats concealing their darkened features and corked moustaches, Neapolitan scarves knotted about their necks, and with crimson silk sashes, in which were stuck a very arsenal of lethal weapons, ranging from ancient duelling-pistols to Gurkha kukris and Canary Island daggers—the species of outfit, in brief, without which no self-respecting Corsican may be found. They fought, were slain, died with artistic gurgles, and were dragged out by the heels; and the junior school, with sighs of rapture, mourned openly that Merriwa was to know them no more.
They appeared in different guise later on, in soft white frocks, their curls clustering about faces scrubbed to a fine rosy polish—the burnt-cork had taken some getting off. On this occasion it was their fate to ascend the daïs modestly and receive prizes at the hands of the Distinguished Person presiding—Jean an award for the French at which, as has been previously stated, she was “a whale,” while Jo, to her own amazement, found herself the owner of Miss Smith’s prize for cookery. Her bewilderment at this was so profound that she almost forgot to bow, and was only recalled to a sense of her position by a dig in the back from the Domestic Economy prize-winner, who was behind her.