"Who knows?" answered Mary, and set her lips in a determined fashion of her own. "Stranger things have happened."
Cupid, less enamoured of continual discipline, intended to be a writer. "My cousin says I've got the stuff in me. And he's a journalist and ought to know."
"I should rather think he ought."
"Well, I mean to have a shot at it."
"And you, Laura?" M. P. asked suavely.
"Me?—Oh, goodness knows!"
"Close as usual, Infant."
"No, really not, Cupid."
"Well, you'll soon have to make up your mind to something now. You're nearly sixteen.—Why not go on working for your B.A.?"
"No thanks! I've had enough of that here." And Laura's thoughts waved their hands, as it were, to the receding figure of Oliver Cromwell.