The Vice-Principal’s room at Heath Hall was double the size of those occupied by the students. Miss Heath had, of course, a separate sleeping apartment. Her delightful sitting-room, therefore, had not the curtained-off effect which took slightly from the charm of the students’ rooms. In summer Miss Heath’s room was beautiful, for the two deep bay-windows – one facing west, the other south – looked out upon smoothly kept lawns and flower-beds, upon tall elm trees, and also upon a distant peep of the river, for which Kingsdene was famous, and some of the spires and towers of the old churches. In winter, too, however – and winter had almost come now – the Vice-Principal’s room had a unique effect, and Priscilla never forgot the first time she saw it. The young girl stepped across the threshold of a new life on this first evening. She would always remember it.

It was getting dark, and curtains were drawn round the cosy bays, and the firelight blazed cheerfully.

Prissie was a little before rather than behind her time, and there was no one in the room to greet her when she entered. She felt so overmastered by shyness, however, that this was almost a relief, and she sank down into one of the many comfortable chairs with a feeling of thankfulness, and looked around her.

The next moment a servant entered with a lamp, covered with a gold silk shade. She placed it on a table near the fire, and lit a few candles, which stood on carved brackets round the walls. Then Prissie saw what made her forget Miss Heath, and her shyness, and all else – a great bank of flowers, which stretched across one complete angle of the room. There were some roses, some chrysanthemums, some geraniums. They were cunningly arranged in pots, but had the effect at a little distance of a gay, tropical garden. Prissie rushed to them, knelt down by a tall, white, Japanese chrysanthemum, and buried her face in its long, wavy petals.

Prissie had never seen such flowers, and she loved all flowers. Her heart swelled with a kind of wonder; and when, the next moment, she felt a light and very soft kiss on her forehead she was scarcely surprised.

“My dear child,” said Miss Heath, “I am so sorry I was not in the room when you came in; but, never mind, my flowers gave you welcome.”

“Yes,” said Prissie, standing up pale, and with a luminous light in her eyes.

“You love flowers?” said Miss Heath, giving her a keen glance.

“Oh, yes; but I did not know – I could not guess – that any flower could be as beautiful as this,” and she touched the great white chrysanthemum with her finger.

“Yes, and there are some flowers even more wonderful. Have you ever seen orchids?”

“No.”

“Then you have something to live for. Orchids are ordinary flowers spiritualised. They have a glamour over them. We have good orchid shows sometimes at Kingsdene. I will take you to the next.”

The servant brought in tea, and Miss Heath placed Prissie in a comfortable chair, where she was neither oppressed by lamplight nor firelight.

“A shy little soul like this will love the shade,” she said to herself. “For all her plainness this is no ordinary girl, and I mean to draw her out presently. What a brow she has, and what a light came into her eyes when she looked at my white chrysanthemum.”

There came a tap at the door, and Maggie Oliphant entered, looking fresh and bright. She gave Prissie an affectionate glance and nod, and then began to busy herself, helping Miss Heath with the tea. During the meal a little pleasant murmur of conversation was kept up. Miss Heath and Maggie exchanged ideas. They even entered upon one or two delicate little skirmishes, each cleverly arguing a slight point on which they appeared to differ. Maggie could make smart repartees, and Miss Heath could parry her graceful young adversary’s home-thrusts with excellent effect.

They talked of one or two books which were then under discussion; they said a little about music, and a word or two with regard to the pictures which were just then causing talk among the art critics in London. It was all new to Prissie, this “light, airy, nothing” kind of talk. It was not study; could it be classed under the head of recreation?

Prissie was accustomed to classify everything, but she did not know under what head to put this pleasant conversation. She was bewildered, puzzled. She listened without losing a word. She forgot herself absolutely.

Miss Heath, however, who knew Maggie Oliphant, but did not know Prissie, was observant of the silent young stranger through all the delights of her pleasant talk. Almost imperceptibly she got Prissie to say a word or two. She paused when she saw a question in Prissie’s eyes, and her timid and gentle words were listened to with deference. By slow degrees Maggie was the silent one, and Priscilla and Miss Heath held the field between them.

“No, I have never been properly educated,” Prissie was saying. “I have never gone to a high school. I don’t do things in the regular fashion. I was so afraid I should not be able to pass the entrance examination for St. Benet’s. I was delighted when I found that I had done so.”

“You passed the examination creditably,” said Miss Heath. “I have looked through your papers. Your answers were not stereotyped. They were much better; they were thoughtful. Whoever has educated you, you have been well taught. You can think.”

“Oh, yes, my dear friend, Mr Hayes, always said that was the first thing.”

“Ah, that accounts for it,” replied Miss Heath. “You have had the advantage of listening to a cultivated man’s conversation. You ought to do very well here. What do you mean to take up?”

“Oh, everything. I can’t know too much.”

Miss Heath laughed, and looked at Maggie. Maggie was lying back in her easy-chair, her head resting luxuriously against a dark velvet cushion. She was tapping the floor slightly with her small foot; her eyes were fixed on Prissie. When Miss Heath laughed, Maggie echoed the sound, but both laughs were in the sweetest sympathy.

“You must not overwork yourself, my dear,” said Miss Heath. “That would be a very false beginning. I think – I am sure – that you have an earnest and ardent nature, but you must avoid an extreme which will only end in disaster.”

Prissie frowned.

“What do you mean?” she said. “I have come here to study. It has been done with such, such difficulty. It would be cruel to waste a moment. I mustn’t; it wouldn’t be right. You can’t mean what you say.”

Miss Heath was silent. She thought it kinder to look away from Prissie. After a moment she said, in a voice which she on purpose made intensely quiet and matter-of-fact —

“Many girls come to St. Benet’s, Miss Peel, who are, I fancy, circumstanced like you. Their friends find it difficult to send them here, but they make the sacrifice, sometimes in one way, sometimes in another – and the girls come. They know it is their duty to study; they have an ulterior motive, which underlies everything else. They know by-and-by they must pay back.”

“Oh, yes,” said Priscilla, starting forward, and a flush coming into her face. “I know that – that is what it is for. To pay back worthily – to give back a thousandfold what you have received. Those girls can’t be idle, can they?” she added in a gentle, piteous sort of way.

“My dear, there have been several such girls at St. Benet’s, and none of them has been idle; they have been best and first among our students. Many of them have done more than well – many of them have brought fame to St. Benet’s. They are in the world now, and earning honourable livelihoods as teachers, or in other departments where cultivated women can alone take the field. These girls are all paying back a thousandfold those who have helped them.”

“Yes,” said Prissie.

“You would like to follow their example?”

“Oh, yes; please tell me about them.”

“Some of them were like you, and thought they would take up everything – everything I mean in the scholastic line. They filled their days with lectures, and studied into the short hours of the night. Maggie, dear, please tell Miss Peel about Good-night and Good-morning.”

“They were such a funny pair,” said Maggie. “They had rooms next to each other in our corridor, Miss Peel. They were both studying for a tripos, and during the term before the examination one went to bed at four, and one got up at four. Mary Joliffe used to go into Susan Martin’s room and say good-morning to her. Susan used to raise such a white face and say, ‘Good-night, my dear.’ Well, poor things, neither of them got a tripos; they worked too hard.”

“The simple English of all this,” said Miss Heath, “is that the successful girl here is the girl who takes advantage of the whole life mapped out for her, who divides her time between play and work, who joins the clubs, and enters heartily into the social life of the place. Yes,” she added, looking suddenly full at Priscilla, “these last words of mine may seem strange to you, dear. Believe me, however, they are true. But I know,” she added with a sigh, “that it takes rather an old person to believe in the education of play.”

Priscilla looked unconvinced.

“I must do what you wish,” she said, “for, of course, you ought to know.”

“What a lame kind of assent, my love! Maggie, you will have to gently lure this young person into the paths of frivolity. I promise you, my dear, that you shall be a very cultivated woman some day; but I only promise this if you will take advantage of all sides of the pleasant life here. Now tell me what are your particular tastes? What branch of study do you like best?”

“I love Latin and Greek better than anything else in the world.”

“Do you truly?” said Maggie, suddenly starting forward. “Then in one thing we have a great sympathy. What have you read? Do tell me.”

Miss Heath stepped discreetly into the background. The two girls conversed for a long time together.

Chapter Ten
St. Hilda’s Chapel

“Here we are now,” said Maggie Oliphant, touching her young companion; “we are in good time; this is the outer chapel. Yes, I know all that you are thinking, but you need not speak: I did not want to speak the first time I came to St. Hilda’s. Just follow me quickly. I know this verger; he will put us into two stalls: then it will be perfect.”

“Yes,” answered Priscilla. She spoke in an awed kind of voice. The cool effect of the dark oak, combined with the richness of the many shafts of coloured light coming from the magnificent windows, gave her own face a curious expression. Was it caused by emotion, or by the strange lights in the chapel?

Maggie glanced at her, touched her hand for a moment, and then hurried forward to her seat.

The girls were accommodated with stalls just above the choir; they could read out of the college prayer-books, and had a fine view of the church.

The congregation streamed in, the choir followed; the doors between the chapel and ante-chapel were shut, the curtains were dropped, and the service began.

There is no better musical service in England than that which Sunday after Sunday is conducted at St. Hilda’s Chapel at Kingsdene. The harmony and the richness of the sounds which fill that old chapel can scarcely be surpassed. The boys send up notes clear and sweet as nightingales’ into the fretted arches of the roof; the men’s deeper notes swell the music until it breaks on the ears in a full tide of perfect harmony; the great organ fills in the breaks and pauses. This splendid service of song seems to reach perfection. In its way earth cannot give anything more perfect.

Maggie Oliphant did not come very often to St. Hilda’s. At one time she was a constant worshipper there; but that was a year ago, before something happened which changed her. Then Sunday after Sunday two lovely girls used to walk up the aisle side by side. The verger knew them, and reserved their favourite stalls for them. They used to kneel together, and listen to the service, and, what is more, take part in it.

But a time came when one of the girls could never return to St. Hilda’s, and the other, people said, did not care to sit in the old seat without her. They said she missed her friend, and was more cut up than anyone else at the sudden death of one so fair and lovely.

When Maggie took her place in the old stall to-day more than one person turned to look at her with interest.

Maggie always made a picturesque effect; she wore a large hat, with a drooping plume of feathers; her dress was very rich and dark; her fair face shone in the midst of these surroundings like an exquisite flower.

The service went on. During the prayers Maggie wept, but, when a great wave of song filled the vast building, she forgot all her sorrow; her voice rose with the other singers, clear, sweet, and high. Her soul seemed to go up on her voice, for all the sadness left her face; her eyes looked jubilant.

Prissie had never been in any place like St. Hilda’s before. It had been one of her dreams to go to the cathedral at Exeter, but year after year this desire of hers had been put off and put off, and this was the first time in her life that she had ever listened to cathedral music. She was impressed, delighted, but not overpowered.

“The organ is magnificent,” she said to herself, “but not grander than the sea. The sea accompanies all the service at the dear little old church at home.” People met, and talked to one another in the green quadrangle outside the chapel. Several other St. Benet’s girls had come to the afternoon service. Amongst them was Miss Day, and that fair, innocent-looking little girl, Rosalind Merton.

Miss Day and Miss Merton were together. They were both stepping back to join Maggie and Prissie, when a tall, dark young man came hastily forward, bowed to Rosalind Merton, and, coming up to Maggie Oliphant, shook hands with her.

“I saw you in chapel,” he said. “Are you coming to the Marshalls’ to tea?”

“I am. Let me introduce to you my friend, Miss Peel. Miss Peel, this is Mr Hammond.”

Hammond raised his hat to Prissie, said a courteous word to her, and then turned to speak again to Maggie.

The three walked through the gates of the quadrangle, and turned up the narrow, picturesque High Street. It would soon be dusk; a wintry light was over everything. Rosalind Merton and Miss Day followed behind. Maggie, who was always absorbed with the present interest, did not heed or notice them, but Priscilla heard one or two ill-bred giggles.

She turned her head with indignation, and received scornful glances from both girls. The four met for a moment at a certain corner. Maggie said something to Annie Day, and introduced Mr Hammond to her. As she did so, Rosalind took the opportunity to come up to Priscilla and whisper to her —

“You’re not wanted, you know. You had much better come home with us.”

“What do you mean?” replied Prissie in her matter-of-fact voice. “Miss Oliphant has asked me to go with her to the Marshalls’.”

“Oh, well – if you care to be in the – ” resumed Rosalind.

Maggie suddenly flashed round on her.

“Come, Miss Peel, we’ll be late,” she said. “Good-bye.” She nodded to Rosalind; her eyes were full of an angry fire; she took Prissie’s hand, and hurried down the street.

The two girls walked away, still giggling; a deep colour mantled Maggie’s cheeks. She turned and began to talk desperately to Mr Hammond. Her tone was flippant; her silvery laughter floated in the air. Priscilla turned and gazed at her friend. She was seeing Maggie in yet another aspect. She felt bewildered.

The three presently reached a pleasant house standing in its own grounds. They were shown into a large drawing-room, full of young people. Mrs Marshall, a pretty old lady, with white hair, came forward to receive them. Maggie was swept away amid fervent embraces and handshakes to the other end of the room. Mrs Marshall saw that Priscilla looked frightened; she took her under her wing, sat down by her on a sofa, and began to talk.

Prissie answered in a sedate voice. Mrs Marshall had a very gentle manner. Prissie began to lose her shyness; she almost imagined that she was back again with Aunt Raby.

“My dear, you will like us all very much,” the old lady said. “No life can be so absolutely delightful as that of a girl graduate at St. Benet’s. The freedom from care, the mixture of study with play, the pleasant social life, all combine to make young women both healthy and wise. Ah, my love, we leave out the middle of the old proverb. The girls at St. Benet’s are in that happy period of existence when they need give no thought to money-making.”

“Some are,” said Prissie. She sighed, and the colour rushed into her cheeks. Mrs Marshall looked at her affectionately.

“Helen,” she called to her grand-daughter who was standing near, “bring Miss Peel another cup of tea – and some cake, Helen – some of that nice cake you made yesterday. Now, my love, I insist. You don’t look at all strong. You really must eat plenty.”

Helen Marshall supplied Prissie’s wants, was introduced to her, and, standing near, joined in the talk.

“I am so glad you know Miss Oliphant,” said Mrs Marshall. “She will make a delightful friend for you.”

“And isn’t she lovely?” said Helen Marshall. “I don’t think I know anyone with such a beautiful face. You ought to be very proud to have her as a friend. Aren’t you very proud?”

“No,” said Prissie, “I don’t know that I am. I am not even sure that she is my friend.”

“Of course she is – she wrote most affectionately of you to grandmother. You can’t think how nicely she spoke. We were glad, we were delighted, because Maggie – dear Maggie – has had no great friends lately. Now, if you have had your tea, Miss Peel, I’ll take you about the room, and introduce you to one or two people.”

Priscilla rose from her seat at once, and the two girls began to move about the crowded drawing-room. Helen Marshall was very slight and graceful; she piloted Prissie here and there without disturbing anyone’s arrangements. At last the two girls found themselves in an immense conservatory, which opened into the drawing-room at one end.

A great many of the guests were strolling about here. Priscilla’s eyes sparkled at the sight of the lovely flowers. She forgot herself, and made eager exclamations of ecstasy. Helen, who up to now had thought her a dull sort of girl, began to take an interest in her.

“I’ll take you into our fern-house, which is just beyond here,” she said. “We have got such exquisite maidenhairs, and such a splendid Killarney fern. Come; you shall see.”

The fern-house seemed to be deserted. Helen opened the door first, and ran forward. Prissie followed. The fern-house was not large; they had almost reached the end when a girl stood up suddenly, and confronted them. The girl was Maggie Oliphant. She was sitting there alone. Her face was absolutely colourless, and tears were lying wet on her eyelashes.

Maggie made a swift remark, a passing jest, and hurried past the two into the outer conservatory.

Priscilla could scarcely tell why, but at that moment she lost all interest in both ferns and flowers. The look of misery on Maggie’s face seemed to strike her own heart like a chill.

“You look tired,” said Helen Marshall, who had not noticed Maggie’s tearful eyes.

“Perhaps I am,” answered Prissie.

They went back again into the drawing-room. Prissie still could see nothing but Miss Oliphant’s eyes, and the look of distress on her pale face.

Helen suddenly made a remark.

“Was there ever such a merry creature as Maggie?” she said. “Do look at her now.”

Prissie raised her eyes. Miss Oliphant was the centre of a gay group, among whom Geoffrey Hammond stood. Her laugh rang out clear and joyous; her smile was like sunshine, her cheeks had roses in them, and her eyes were as bright as stars.

Chapter Eleven
Conspirators

Annie Day and her friend Rosalind ceased to laugh as soon as they turned the corner. Annie now turned her eyes and fixed them on Rosalind, who blushed and looked uncomfortable.

“Well,” said Annie, “you are a humbug, Rose! What a story you told me about Mr Hammond – how he looked at you, and was so anxious to make use of you. Oh, you know all you said. You told me a charming story about your position as ‘gooseberry.’ You expected a little fun for yourself, didn’t you, my friend? Well, it seems to me that if anyone is to have the fun, it is Priscilla Peel.”

Rosalind had rather a nervous manner. She bit her lips now; her baby-blue eyes looked angry, her innocent face wore a frown. She dropped her hold of Annie Day’s arm.

Miss Day was one of the most commonplace girls at Heath Hall. She had neither good looks nor talent; she had no refinement of nature, nor had she those rugged but sterling qualities of honesty and integrity of purpose which go far to cover a multitude of other defects.

“I wish you wouldn’t speak to me in that way,” said Rosalind, with a little gasp. “I hate people to laugh at me, and I can’t stand sneers.”

“Oh, no! you’re such a dear little innocent baby. Of course, I can quite understand. And does she suppose I’ll ruffle her pretty little feathers? No, not I. I’d rather invent a new cradle song for you, Rosie, dear.”

“Don’t, don’t!” said Rosalind. “Look here, Annie, I must say something – yes, I must. I hate Maggie Oliphant!”

“You hate Miss Oliphant?” Annie Day stood still, turned round, and stared at her companion. “When did this revolution take place, my dear? What about Rose and Maggie sitting side by side at dinner? And Rose creeping away all by herself to Maggie’s room, and angling for an invitation to cocoa, and trying hard, very hard, to become a member of the Dramatic Society, just because Maggie acts so splendidly. Has it not been Maggie – Maggie– ever since the term began, until we girls, who were not in love with this quite too charming piece of perfection, absolutely hated the sound of her name? Oh, Rose, what a fickle baby you are. I am ashamed of you!”

“Don’t!” said Rose, again. She linked her hand half timidly in Miss Day’s arm. Miss Day was almost a head and shoulders above the little, delicate, fairy-like creature. “I suppose I can’t help changing my mind,” she said. “I did love Maggie, of course I loved her – she fascinated me; but I don’t care for her – no, I hate her now!”

“How vehemently you pronounce that naughty word, my fair Rosalind. You must give me some reasons for this grievous change in your feelings.”

“She snubbed me,” said Rosalind; “she made little of me. I offered to do her a kindness, and she repulsed me. Who cares to be made little of, and repulsed?”

“Who, truly, Rosie? – not even an innocent baby. Now then, my love, let me whisper a little secret to you. I have never loved Miss Oliphant. I have never been a victim to her charms. Time was when she and Miss Lee – poor Annabel! – ruled the whole of our Hall. Those two girls carried everything before them. That was before your day, Rose. Then Miss Lee died. She caught a chill, and had a fever, and was dead in a couple of days. Yes, of course, it was shocking. They moved her to the hospital, and she died there. Oh, there was such excitement, and such grief – even I was sorry; for Annabel had a way about her, I can’t describe it, but she could fascinate you. It was awfully interesting to talk to her, and even to look at her was a real pleasure. We used not to think much about Maggie when Annabel was by; but now, what with Maggie and her mystery, and Maggie and her love affair, and Maggie and her handsome face, and her wealth, and her expectations, why she bids fair to be more popular even than the two were when they were together. Yes, little Rose, I don’t want her to be popular any more than you do. I think it’s a very unhealthy sign of any place to have all the girls sighing and groaning about one or two – dying to possess their autographs, and kissing their photographs, and framing them, and putting them up in their rooms. I hate that mawkish kind of nonsense,” continued Miss Day, looking very virtuous, “and I think Miss Heath ought to know about it, and put a stop to it. I do, really.”

Rosalind was glad that the gathering darkness prevented her sharp companion from seeing the blush on her face; for amongst her own sacred possessions she kept an autograph letter of Maggie’s, and she had passionately kissed Maggie’s beautiful face as it looked at her out of a photograph, and, until the moment when all her feelings had undergone such a change, was secretly saving up her pence to buy a frame for it. Now she inquired eagerly —

“What is the mystery about Miss Oliphant? So many people hint about it, I do wish you would tell me, Annie.”

“If I told you, pet, it would cease to be a mystery.”

“But you might say what you know. Do, Annie!”

“Oh, it isn’t much – it’s really nothing; and yet – and yet – ”

“You know it isn’t nothing, Annie!”

“Well, when Annabel died, people said that Maggie had more cause than anyone else to be sorry. I never could find out what that cause was; but the servants spread some reports. They said they had found Maggie and Annabel together; Annabel had fainted, and Maggie was in an awful state of misery – in quite an unnatural state, they said; she went into hysterics, and Miss Heath was sent for, and was a long time soothing her. There was no apparent reason for this, although, somehow or other, little whispers got abroad that the mystery of Annabel’s illness and Maggie’s distress was connected with Geoffrey Hammond. Of course, nothing was known, and nothing is known; but, certainly, the little whisper got into the air. Dear me, Rosalind, you need not eat me with your eyes. I am repeating mere conjectures, and it is highly probable that not the slightest notice would have been taken of this little rumour but for the tragedy which immediately followed. Annabel, who had been as gay and well as anyone at breakfast that morning, was never seen in the college again. She was unconscious, the servants said, for a long time, and when she awoke was in high fever. She was removed to the hospital, and Maggie had seen the last of her friend. Poor Annabel died in two days, and afterwards Maggie took the fever. Yes, she has been quite changed since then. She always had moods, as she called them, but not like now. Sometimes I think she is almost flighty.”

Rosalind was silent. After a while she said, in a prim little voice, which she adopted now and then when she wanted to conceal her real feelings —

“But I do wonder what the quarrel was about – I mean, what really happened between Annabel and Maggie.”

“Look here, Rosalind, have I said anything about a quarrel? Please remember that the whole thing is conjecture from beginning to end, and don’t go all over the place spreading stories and making mischief. I have told you this in confidence, so don’t forget.”

“I won’t forget,” replied Rosalind. “I don’t know why you should accuse me of wanting to make mischief, Annie. I can’t help being curious, of course, and, of course, I’d like to know more.”

“Well, for that matter, so would I,” replied Annie. “Where there is a mystery it’s much more satisfactory to get to the bottom of it. Of course, something dreadful must have happened to account for the change in Miss Oliphant. It would be a comfort to know the truth, and, of course, one need never talk of it. By the way, Rosie, you are just the person to ferret this little secret out; you are the right sort of person for spying and peeping.”

“Oh, thank you,” replied Rosalind; “if that’s your opinion of me I’m not inclined to do anything to please you. Spying and peeping, indeed! What next?”

Annie Day patted her companion’s small white hand.

“And so I’ve hurt the dear little baby’s feelings!” she said. “But I didn’t mean to – no, that I didn’t. And she such a pretty, sweet, little pet as she is! Well, Rosie, you know what I mean. If we can find out the truth about Miss Maggie we’ll just have a quiet little crow over her all to ourselves. I don’t suppose we shall find out; but opportunities may arise – who knows? Now I want to speak to you about another person, and that is Maggie’s new friend.”

“What new friend?” Rosalind blushed brightly.

“That ugly Priscilla Peel. She has taken her up. Anyone can see that.”

“Oh, I don’t think so.”

“But I do – I am sure of it. Now I have good reason not to like Miss Priscilla. You know what a virtuous parade she made of herself a few nights ago?”

“Yes, you told me.”

“Horrid, set-up minx! Just the sort of girl who ought to be suppressed, and crushed out of a college like ours. Vaunting her poverty in our very faces, and refusing to make herself pleasant or one with us in any sort of way. Lucy Marsh and I had a long talk over her that night, and we put our heads together to concoct a nice little bit of punishment for her. You know she’s horridly shy, and as gauche as if she lived in the backwoods, and we meant to ‘send her to Coventry.’ We had it all arranged, and a whole lot of girls would have joined us, for it’s contrary to the spirit of a place like this to allow girls of the Priscilla Peel type to become popular, or liked in any way. But, most unluckily, poor, dear, good, but stupid, Nancy Banister was in the room when Prissie made her little oration, and Nancy took her up as if she were a heroine, and spoke of her as if she had done something magnificent, and, of course, Nancy told Maggie, and now Maggie is as thick as possible with Prissie. So you see, my dear Rosalind, our virtuous little scheme is completely knocked on the head.”

“I don’t see – ” began Rosalind.

“You little goose, before a week is out Prissie will be the fashion. All the girls will flock round her when Maggie takes her part. Bare, ugly rooms will be the rage; poverty will be the height of the fashion, and it will be considered wrong even to go in for the recognised college recreations. Rosie, my love, we must nip this growing mischief in the bud.”

“How?” asked Rosalind.

“We must separate Maggie Oliphant and Priscilla Peel.”

“How?” asked Rose again. “I’m sure,” she added, in a vehement voice, “I’m willing – I’m more than willing.”