It was the most crowded hour of the short November day. Athletic men were there, returning, in flannels and wrappers, from the river or the Piece; sporting men from the hunting-field; reading men from their trudge along the Wranglers’ Walk. Of ‘pifflers’ an abundance; men with terriers, men with button-holes, men in dog-carts--the whole many-coloured undergraduate world, alert, self-engrossed. Drawing together the curtain, Marjorie Bartrand moved back to her looking-glass. She stood confronting the pale, serious-eyed vision that met her there with a kind of pity. She was so young, and the years to come were so many; disappointed years under whose weight she must stand upright, give no sign she winced beneath their burthen, wear a brave countenance--work! She felt that she hated Cambridge, this ceaseless ebb and flow, this turmoil of exultant, successful, youthful life! Was not Tintajeux, with its dying woods, its still moorland, a fitter drop-scene for the little played-out drama of her personal happiness? As Marjorie meditated, the sharp sound of the postman’s knock made her start. No letter of more vital interest than a despatch from the Seigneur was likely to reach her; and yet her breath quickened. Her mood throughout the day had been one of feverish, unreasoning expectancy. Change, for good or for evil, was, she felt, in the air. Opening the door of her room, she listened with vague impatience. Hot controversies anent over-weight and foreign postage were impending between Madame Pouchée and the postman; Madame, in the matter of extra half-pence, standing stoutly on the defensive. After a time there would seem to be a reluctant payment of coin, followed by the brisk shutting of an outer door. Then the old Frenchwoman’s slippered steps began leisurely to ascend the stair. The girl’s breath came faster. She ran out on the landing. The letter was _not_ the size or shape of the Seigneur’s letters, and it bore two postmarks: Florence, Guernsey.... ‘ ... Five half-pence over-weight. I hope, mère, it may be worth its postage,’ observed Mademoiselle Pouchée, busily tying up violets in the salon for the adornment of Marjorie’s dress. ‘The child has never spoken about Italy, still--her heart is somewhere, mère, and I don’t believe that somewhere is in Newnham or Girton. Ah, when I, too, had eighteen summers, when----’ ‘Pouchée! Dear, good old Pouchée!’ called out a voice, resonant, hearty, imperious, from the attic floor. ‘Leave the violets. Come upstairs, quick! I have had splendid news. Everything in the world is changed. You must send an excuse to the Master of Matthias at once.’ In a moment the Pouchées, mother and daughter, were at the bottom of the stairs. Marjorie Bartrand, her opened letter in her hand, a flush of wild excitement lighting her face up into its vivid Southern beauty, stood on the landing above.