He looked at her gravely and tenderly. She coloured a little as she withdrew her hands.
“Happy? That doesn’t matter—does it? But perhaps for a change—one might try—”
“Try what?”
“Well!”—she laughed, but he thought there were tears in her eyes—“to do something—for somebody—occasionally.”
“Ask Mrs. Mulholland! She has a genius for that kind of thing. Teach some of her orphans!”
“I couldn’t! They’d find me out.”
Sorell, rather puzzled, suggested that she might become a Home Student like Nora, and go in for a Literature or Modern History Certificate. Connie, who was now sitting moodily over a grate with no fire in it, with her chin in her hands, only shook her head.
“I don’t know anything—I never learnt anything. And everybody here’s so appallingly clever!”
Then she declared that she would go and have tea with the Master of Beaumont, and ask his advice. “He told me to learn something”—the tone was one of depression, passing into rebellion—“but I don’t want to learn anything!—I want to do something!”
Sorell laughed at her.