She hadn't eaten any supper, and had been quite
cross with her mother in their talk about the dining-room, which was the
worst thing that had happened at all. And now at nine o'clock she wanted
to go to bed, but her algebra would not, _would not_ come right, and
life was horrible, and she was unfit to live it anyway, and she wished
she was ...
"You are crying," stated a calm young voice across the table.
Brought up with a cool round turn, greatly mortified, Fifi thought that
the best way to meet the emergency was just to say nothing.
"What is the matter?" demanded the professorial tones.
"Oh, nothing," she said, winking back the tears and trying to smile,
apologetically--"just silly reasons. I--I've spent an hour and ten
minutes on a problem here, and it won't come right. I'm--sorry I
disturbed you."
There was a brief silence. Mr. Queed cleared his throat.
"You cannot solve your problem?"
"I haven't _yet_," she sniffed bravely, "but of course I will _soon_.
Oh, I understand it very well...."
She kept her eyes stoutly fixed upon her book, which indicated that not
for worlds would she interrupt him further.
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