“Oh, I know, I know! I want to kill them, too. Vision’s not a mite of use without tact. But no bars can shut out the stars if we choose to let them shine.”
Her own face was ashine as she spoke, but anything more unlike “goodiness,” abhorred by every normal girl, it would be impossible to imagine.
“Tell me about your work—how do you get on with your coach?” she asked the next moment, switching off to ordinary subjects in the most easy and natural of manners, and Darsie found herself laying bare all the little hitches and difficulties which must needs enter into even the most congenial course of study, and being alternately laughed at and consoled, and directed towards a solution by brisk, apt words.
“You’re all right—you’ve got a head. You’ll come through on top, if you’ll be content to go slow. Want to take the Tripos first year, and honours at that—that’s your style! Calm down, my dear, and be content to jog. It pays better in the end.” She flashed a radiant smile at Darsie’s reddening face, then jumped up to greet her other guests of the evening, three in number, who appeared at that moment, each carrying her own precious portion of milk.
One was “Economics” and owned so square a jaw that the line of it (there was no curve) seemed to run down straight with the ear; another was “Science” and wore spectacles; a third was “Modern Languages,” like the host, but one and all shared an apparently unlimited appetite for Cocoa, Conversation, and Chelsea buns, the which they proceeded to enjoy to the full. “Modern Languages” being in the ascendant, indulged in a little “shop” as a preliminary, accompanied by the sighs, groans, and complaints incidental to the subject.
“How’s your drama getting on? Is it developing satisfactorily?” Student Number Two inquired of Darsie, in reference to the paper given out at the last lecture in Divinity Hall, and Darsie shrugged with a plaintive air.
“I’ve been struggling to develop it, to trace its development, as he said; but the tracings are decidedly dim! I get on much better with a subject on which I can throw a little imagination. ‘The growth of the novel,’ for instance—I wove quite a fairy-tale out of that.”
The girls smiled, but with a dubious air.
“Better be careful! That’s a ruse which most of us have tried in our day, and come wearily back to sober fact... How do you like the Historical French Grammar?”
The Fresher made a gesture as if to tear her hair, whereupon the second-year girls groaned in chorus.