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“Don’t know how you’ll convince Gibbie!” chuckled Muriel Fuller.

“You leave Gibbie to me! My mind’s seething with ideas. It’s absolutely chock full. I see possibilities that I never even dreamt of at the old school. I believe this term’s going to be the time of my life. Bless the dear old Bumble Bee! She’s buzzed to some purpose in bringing us here!”

Perhaps what struck the girls most of all was the large dormitory. In the days of the French Revolution Marlowe Grange had been the refuge of an order of nuns, who had escaped from Limoges and founded a temporary convent in the old house. It was owing to the excellence of their arrangements, and the structural improvements which they had left behind them, that the Grange had been so eminently suitable for a school. Seven little bedrooms placed side by side served exactly to accommodate the members of the Sixth Form, while the great chamber, running from end to end of the house, with its nineteen snow-white beds, provided quarters for the rank and file. Just for a moment the girls had stared rather aghast at their vast dormitory, contrasting it with the numerous small rooms of their former school; but the possibilities of fun presented by this congregation of beds outweighed the disadvantages, and they had decided that the arrangement was “topping.” It had, however, one serious drawback. At the far end was a small extra chamber, intended originally for the use of the Mother Superior of the convent, and here, to the girls’ infinite dismay, Miss Gibbs had taken up her abode. There was no mistake about it. Her box blocked the doorway; her bag, labelled 17 “M. Gibbs. Passenger to Great Marlowe via Littleton Junction,” reposed upon a chair, her hat and coat lay on the bed, and a neat time-table of classes was already pinned upon the wall.

“We didn’t bargain to have the Wasp at such close quarters!” whispered Ardiune Coleman-Smith ruefully. “She’ll sleep with both ears open, and if we stir a finger or breathe a word she’ll hear!”

“Cheero! There are ways of making people deaf,” remarked Raymonde sanguinely. “How? Ah, my child, that’s a surprise for the future! D’you suppose” (with a cryptic shake of the head) “I’m going to give away my professional secrets? I’ve told you already it’s my mission to enliven this school, and if you don’t have a jinky term I’ll consider myself a failure. Haven’t I started well? I arrived half an hour before everyone else, and booked up all the beds on the far side for our set. Here you are! A label’s pinned to each pillow!”

The six kindred spirits who revolved as satellites in Raymonde’s orbit turned to her with a gush of admiration. It was a brilliant thought to have labelled the beds, and so secured the most eligible portion of the dormitory for themselves.

“You’re the limit, Ray!” gurgled Aveline.

Aveline was generally regarded as Raymonde’s under-study. She was not so clever, so daring, or so altogether reckless, but she came in a very good second-best in most of the harum-scarum escapades. She could always be relied upon for support, could keep a secret, and had a peculiarly convenient knack of baffling awkward questions by putting 18 on an attitude of utter stolidity. When her eyes were half-closed under their heavy lids, and her mouth wore what the girls called its “John Bull” expression, not even Miss Beasley herself could drag information out of Aveline. The Sphinx, as she was sometimes nicknamed, prided herself on her accomplishment, and took particular care to maintain her character. Raymonde had apportioned the bed on her right to Aveline, and that on her left to Fauvette Robinson, who occupied about an equal place in her affections.

Fauvette was a little, blue-eyed, fluffy-haired, clinging, cuddly, ultra-feminine specimen who hung on to Raymonde like a limpet. Raymonde twisted her flaxen locks for her in curl rags, helped to thread baby ribbon through her under-bodices, hauled her out of bed in the mornings, drummed her lessons into her, formed her opinions, and generally dominated her school career. Fauvette was one of those girls who all their lives lean upon somebody, and at present she had twined herself, an ornamental piece of honeysuckle, round the stout oak prop of Raymonde’s stronger personality. She was a dear, amiable, sweet-tempered little soul, highly romantic and sentimental, with a pretty soprano voice, and just a sufficient talent for acting to make her absolutely invaluable in scenes from Dickens or Jane Austen, where a heroine of the innocent, pleading, pathetic, babyish, Early Victorian type was required.

A more spicy character was Morvyth Holmes, otherwise “The Kipper.” Her pale face and shining hazel eyes showed cleverness. When she cared to work she could astonish her Form and her 19 teacher, but her energy came in such odd bursts, and with such long lapses between, that it did not in the aggregate amount to much. It was rumoured in the school that Miss Beasley had her eye on Morvyth as a possible candidate for public examinations, and, in fear lest such an honour might be thrust upon her, Morvyth was careful to avoid the display of too deep erudition.

“It wouldn’t do,” she assured her chums. “Catch me swatting for the Senior Oxford like poor old Meta and Daphne. I tell you those girls will hardly enjoy a decent game of tennis this term. The Bumble Bee’s got their wretched noses on the grindstone, and they’ll have a blighting time till the affair’s over. No, I’m a wary bird, and I’m not going to be decoyed into an intellectual trap and dished up for examination. Not even the Essay Prize shall tempt me! You may win it yourself, Ray, if you like!”

“Poor old Kipper!” murmured Raymonde. “It’s a little rough on you that you daren’t exhibit your talents. Can’t you show a doctor’s certificate prohibiting you from entering for public exams. and limiting your prep.? The kind of thing one brings back to school after scarlet fever, you know.”

Morvyth shook her head dolefully.

“It’s no go! The Bumble would be capable of sending for the doctor and thrashing the matter out with him. My only safety lies in modesty. No school laurels for me. They cost too dear.”

Valentine Gorton and Ardiune Coleman-Smith, known familiarly as “Salt” and “Pepper,” were inseparable friends in spite of the fact that they quarrelled on an average at least three times a day. 20 Their tiffs were very easily made up, however, and they always supported each other in upsets with anyone else, merging what might be termed tribal disputes in national warfare. Being well supplied from home with chocolates, and liberal in their dispensation, they were favourites in their Form, and indeed throughout the school wore the hallmark of popularity.

Raymonde’s particular set of chums was completed by Katherine Harding, a damsel whose demure looks belied her character. Katherine’s innocent grey eyes and doll-like complexion were the vineyards that hide the volcano. She could always be relied upon to support any enterprising project or interesting hoax that was presented for her approval. These seven comrades, close chums in the past, banded themselves together anew to enjoy life to the best of their ability, and to obtain the maximum of fun and diversion out of the forthcoming term. It is with their immediate adventures that this book is largely concerned.

“D’you know,” said Morvyth, flopping down disgustedly on to a form, and addressing an interested audience of