Geraldine was studying elocution, and she wore a scarlet cape and hood, and she was going on the stage by and by.

I acknowledged that her sense of superiority was well-founded, and retired farther into my corner, for the first time conscious of my shabbiness and lowliness.
I looked on at the dancing until I could endure it no longer.

Overcome by a sense of isolation and unfitness, I slipped out of the room, avoiding the teacher's eye, and went home to write melancholy poetry.
What had come over me?
Why was I, the confident, the ambitious, suddenly grown so shy and meek?
Why was the candidate for encyclopaedic immortality overawed by a scarlet hood?
Why did I, a very tomboy yesterday, suddenly find my playmates stupid, and hide-and-seek a bore?
I did not know why.

I only knew that I was lonely and troubled and sore; and I went home to write sad poetry.
I shall never forget the pattern of the red carpet in our parlor,--we had achieved a carpet since Chelsea days,--because I lay for hours face down on the floor, writing poetry on a screechy slate.

When I had perfected my verses, and copied them fair on the famous blue-lined note paper, and saw that I had made a very pathetic poem indeed, I felt better.