" And she pointed disdainfully at the book, a
square, clumsy volume, bound in dingy black cloth covers.
Polly looked rather hurt.
"I know all that, girls," she began; "but an hour a day, and only
every other day, too, isn't very much to spend on it."
"It's an hour too much, though, Polly," said Molly decisively.
"This garret is so warm; wait till cooler weather, and then we'll
try again. We shouldn't have time to finish it, anyway, before
Jean had the play ready for us. How is it getting along, Jean?"
"Awfully!" confessed Jean. "Whenever I sit down to write, my head
is as empty as an egg is, after you've blown it."
"Now, you girls let me plan for you," said Alan, moved to pity by
Polly's downcast face. "You let your old book go till fall, and
then start again, but only read half an hour a day. That's all
your brains can take in, and I'll try to be on hand to explain it
to you. How does that suit, Poll?"
"I suppose it will have to do," sighed Polly. "I hate to give up,
now we've started; but if you won't read, you won't."
"Very true," remarked Jean, while Florence added,--
"Now, tell us truly, Polly, do you know what the man is talking
about half the time?"
"No, I don't know as I do," admitted Polly.
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