Darsie and Hannah had amassed between them quite a stock of furnishings. A screen apiece, chairs, Oriental window-curtains in stripes of contrasting colours warm and comfortable to look upon, flower-pots, and odd pictures and ornaments. One felt a proprietor, indeed, as one looked over the spoils, and the inroads into capital had been agreeably small. Darsie was folding up her damaged “spread” when a voice spoke in her ear, and with a little jump of the heart she looked up to find Margaret France standing by her side.
“How do you do? I must thank you for your patronage. You chipped in nobly. Hope you’ll like ’em, when you’ve got ’em. Just up, aren’t you? What’s your shop?”
For a moment Darsie stared blankly, then a flash of intuition revealed the meaning of the word.
“Modern languages.”
“Good! So’m I. And your friend?”
“Mathematics.”
“Humph! Well, good luck! I’m off to bed. We shall meet on the Rialto!”
She smiled, nodded, and was gone. With a sudden realisation of their own fatigue the Freshers turned to follow her example. Helen Ross joined them on their way along the corridors, and Darsie could not resist expressing her appreciation of the auctioneer’s wit.
“She was delicious. I have enjoyed it. She is amusing and clever.”
“Think so?” said Helen coolly. “Really? Glad you were pleased. It’s usually far better than that!”