“And that is why all the girls have stared so at me.”
“Yes, of course; but let them stare. Who minds such a trifle?”
Priscilla sat silent for a few moments. One of the neat waiting-maids removed her plate; her almost untasted dinner lay upon it. Miss Oliphant turned to attack some roast mutton with truly British vigour.
By-and-by Priscilla’s voice, stiff but with a break in it, fell upon her ear.
“I think the students at St. Benet’s must be very cruel.”
“My dear Miss Peel, the honour of the most fascinating college in England is imperilled. Unsay those words.”
Maggie Oliphant was joking. Her voice was gay with badinage, her eyes brimful of laughter. But Priscilla, unaccustomed to light repartee or chaff in any form, replied to her with heavy and pained seriousness.
“I think the students here are cruel,” she repeated. “How can a stranger know which is the dons’ entrance, and which is the right seat to take at table? If nobody shows her, how can a stranger know? I do think the students are cruel, and I am sorry—I am very sorry I came.”