Lucy was awaiting her in the street, and they betook themselves to the nearest shop where they could get afternoon tea.
"Well," said Lucy, "what is your final judgment?"
Mona sighed. "Anatomy, very fair," she said—"morning paper especially; Physiology—between you and me and the lamp-post—the best paper I ever did in my life; Chemistry, safe, I think; Materia Medica—better at least than last time."
"Brava!" cried Lucy.
"Oh, don't! I ought not to have said so much. It is tempting the Fates."
"No matter. With a record like that you can afford to tempt the Fates. Oh, Mona, I do hope you have got the Physiology medal!" She raised her teacup. "Here's to Mona Maclean, Gold Medallist in Physiology!"
"No, no, no," said Mona. "My paper is not on those lines at all, and the Practical is still to come."
"And who is better prepared for that than you, with your private laboratory, and all the rest of it?"
"I have often told you that the best work of the world is rarely done with the best instruments."
Lucy groaned. "If three days' examination won't keep her from moralising," she said, "it may safely be predicted that nothing will. What a prospect?"