A girl’s life at one of the women’s colleges is supposed to be more or less an unfettered sort of existence; the broad rules guiding conduct are few, and little more than those which must be exercised in any well-organised family. But there is the unspoken etiquette made chiefly by the students themselves, which fills the place like an atmosphere, and which can only be transgressed at the risk of surly glances and muttered comments, and even words of derision.
No student was expected to enter the hall by the dons’ entrance, and for this enormity to be perpetrated by a Fresher immediately made her the cynosure of all eyes. Poor Priscilla was unconscious of any offence. She grew scarlet under the gaze of the merciless young eyes, and further added to her sins by sitting down at one of the tables at the top of the hall.
No one reproved her in words, or requested her to take a lower seat, but some rude giggles were not inaudible; and Priscilla, who would thankfully have taken her dinner in the scullery, heard hints about a certain young person’s presumption, and about the cheek of those wretched Freshers, which must instantly be put down with a high hand.
Priscilla had choked over her soup, and was making poor way with the fish that followed, when suddenly a sweet, low voice addressed her.
“This is your first evening at St. Benet’s,” said the voice. “I hope you will be happy. I know you will, after a little.”
Priscilla turned, and met the full gaze of lovely eyes, brown like a nut, soft and deep as the thick pile of velvet, and yet with a latent flash and glow in them which gave them a red, half-wild gleam now and then. The lips that belonged to this face were slightly parted in a smile; the smile and the expression in the eyes stole straight down with a glow of delicious comfort into Priscilla’s heart.
“Thank you,” she said, in her stiff, wooden tone; but her eyes did not look stiff, and the girl began to talk again.
“I believe my room is next to yours. My name is Oliphant—Margaret Oliphant, but everyone calls me Maggie. That is, of course, I mean my friends do. Would you like to come into my room, and let me tell you some of the rules?”
“Thank you,” said Priscilla again. She longed to add, “I should love beyond words to come into your room;” but instead she remarked icily, “I think Miss Heath has given me printed rules.”
“Oh, you have seen our dear Dorothea—I mean Miss Heath. Isn’t she lovely?”