"Somebody's Syrup," Lucy said; but she was pleased.
So pleased that even pushing little hairpins into their appointed places did not bore her with the customary frenzy of boredom. She creamed her face and considered it, unadorned and greasy in the bright hard light, with unaccustomed tolerance. There was no doubt that being a little on the plump side kept the lines away; if you had to have a face like a scone it was at least comforting that it was a smooth scone. And, now she came to think of it, one was given the looks that were appropriate; if she had Garbo's nose she would have to dress up to it, and if she had Miss Lux's cheek-bones she would have to live up to them. Lucy had never been able to live up to anything. Not even The Book.
Remembering in time that there was no bedside light-students were discouraged from working in bed-she switched the light off and crossed to pull aside the curtains of the window looking out on the courtyard. She stood there by the wide-open window, smelling the cool scented night. A great stillness had settled on Leys. The chatter, the bells, the laughter, the wild protests, the drumming of feet, the rush of bath water, the coming and going, had crystallised into this great silent bulk, a deeper darkness in the quiet dark.
"Miss Pym."
The whisper came from one of the windows opposite.
Could they see her, then? No, of course not. Someone had heard the small noise of her curtains being drawn back.
"Miss Pym, we are so glad you are staying."
So much for the college grape-vine! Not fifteen minutes since Nash said goodnight, but already the news was in the opposite wing.
Before she could answer, a chorus of whispers came from the unseen windows round the little quadrangle. Yes, Miss Pym. We are glad. Glad, Miss Pym. Yes. Yes. Glad, Miss Pym.
"Goodnight, everyone," Lucy said.