"Do you know what it is, Miss Philips? You are thrown away on those Scotch examinations. Why did you not go in for the London degree?"
"Matric.," was the laconic response.
"Oh, the Matric. is nothing!"
"Besides, I could not afford the time. Six years, even if one was lucky enough not to get ploughed."
"Talking of being ploughed," said a student who had just entered the room, "you won't guess whom I have just met?—Miss Maclean."
"Miss Maclean?—in London?"
"In the chemical laboratory at the present moment. She is going up for her Intermediate again, in July."
"Who is Miss Maclean?" asked the girl who had been studying the skeleton.
There was a general exclamation.
"Not to know her, my dear," said the new-comer, "argues yourself—quite beneath notice. Miss Maclean is one of the Intermediate Chronics."