When it came to the last sad minute she was bound to look away.
“If I did dare to look at him then, he would understand too well,” she thought, and so once more it was a most unsatisfactory farewell. When they had settled down, and the train was on its way, she hid herself behind a paper.
“He had forgotten all about me, and it’s scarcely four months ago. I expect all the times I used to run down to see him he was thinking of someone else.” She felt a bit broken-hearted; she remembered all the silly little subterfuges she had been up to, and how she had once worn aprons for a fortnight because she thought it looked domesticated and as if she understood something about the management of a house.
“I don’t know what you can see in Mr ——,” said Maggie, from the opposite seat. “He is so shy.”
But Deborah did not argue—it was not worth it.
After the Christmas holidays she went back to college and the two years dragged away.
Deborah, when she first went to college, was forever being scolded about her essays.
“It’s no good your ever thinking you can write,” a hard, contemptuous voice was continually saying to her. “You had two or three rather signal failures in that line before coming to college at all, and even in this mediocre place you fail to make the least impression with your work.”
On the other hand, a clear, firm voice kept ringing, “Some day, when I care to write in my own way, they shall listen to me.” It was a very proud voice—too proud, perhaps.
There was a girl who was noted for being the best essay-writer in the college. She was a little older than most of those who were there, and was supposed to have a better conception of life and things as they really are. But she was not a great favourite, as she rather looked down on most of the other girls, and understood the art of being rude a little better than most people. Her name was Jane Shaw.