Miss Miles started a little, and stared at the girl blankly.
“Yes. I—I think so,” she stammered. “I go to lectures sometimes, and to the Ethical Society. There’s the theatre, of course, when one can afford it.”
“How long have you been here?” Bridget asked.
“Six years.”
“Six years!” she echoed, with a long breath. “Six years of this. How have you borne it? What have you done with yourself?”
“I have worked. What does the Council engage us for, but to work?”
Bridget shrank, as though from a blow. “Worked,” she repeated. “Yes, of course, but—but life isn’t—can’t be all work,” she urged pitifully. “Surely—”
“When you have to get different classes through the Cambridge junior and senior, the Board examination, and the matriculation in one year, you will find there isn’t much time for anything else.”
Bridget looked at her a moment in silence.
“Have you never had a good time?” she asked at last, softly. “What have you done all your life? Ah, you won’t think me rude, will you?” she added hastily. She bent over and touched her hand gently as she spoke.