"Dear Doris," Mona said, "what do you suppose I am marrying for?"
"Miss Colquhoun does not understand," said Lucy. "A Trousseau is a thing no medical practitioner can be without. See, there it stands in five goodly volumes on the second shelf,—particularly valuable on the subject of epilepsy."
"Lucy, do talk sense," said Mona, laughing.
"I appeal to any unbiassed listener to say whether I am not the only person present who is talking sense. But seriously, Miss Colquhoun, I wish I had a rich and adoring uncle. To have a trousseau like Mona's I would marry the devil!"
She set down her cup and ran away, before either of them could enter a protest.
"Will she ever really be a doctor?" Doris asked doubtfully.
"Oh yes, indeed. Your presence seems to rouse a spirit of mischief within her, but you have no idea how she has developed. She will make a much better doctor than I shall. She would have been on the Register now but for her illness; as it is, she goes in with Ralph and me in October."
"Are you going to get another medal?"
"No, no," Mona said gravely. "I only aim at a pass, and I think I am pretty sure of that. There are fewer pitfalls than there were in the Intermediate for my mighty scientific mind. But we can talk of that another time. I want to hear about some one else now. Does your father really consent to your going to India?"
"Dear old Dad!" said Doris, smiling. "He is coming with us. He has not had a long holiday for years, and everybody goes to India now-a-days. When he comes back, I expect one of my aunts will keep house for him."