fore Marjory realised what was about to happen, Mabel was shouting back, to an air quite as objectionable as the one Laura was singing:
"There's a very rude girl named Laura,
Whose ways fill all with horror.
She's all the things she says we are;
All know this to their sorrow."
"Yah! yah!" retorted quick-witted Laura. "There isn't a rhyme in your old song. If I couldn't rhyme better'n that I'd learn how—come over and I'll teach you."
For an instant, Mabel looked decidedly crushed—no poet likes his rhymes disparaged. Laura, noting Mabel's crestfallen attitude, went into gales of mocking laughter and when Mabel looked at Marjory for sympathy Marjory's face was wreathed in smiles. It was too much; Mabel hated to be laughed at.
"I can rhyme," cried Mabel, springing to her feet and giving vent to all her grievances at once. "My table manners are good.
