‘You are inkier than ever, Marjorie Bartrand.’ This was Miss Tighe’s first personal observation, thrown back over her shoulder as she knotted Midge, the unkempt Brittany pony, to a rail, with one of the sundry odds and ends of rope stowed away in readiness within that all-containing cart of hers. ‘Only about the wrists,’ Marjorie pleaded, holding out the sleeve of her holland pinafore. ‘But I don’t see that University teaching puts flesh on your bones. You are growing too much like that picture of your mother. Eyes are all very well, especially handsome ones, but one wants something more than eyes in a face. You would have done much better’--who shall say Cassandra was not right--‘much better to come with Annette and me to Sark, jelly-fish hunting.’ The speech gave an impression of being double-shotted. But Marjorie, with unwonted meekness, made no retort until she and her visitor were within shelter of the drawing-room. There, in the familiar presence of the buhl Cupids, of the miniature Bartrands, who had danced, loved or hated each other, and gone to the guillotine with such easy grace, the girl felt herself protected--oh, Marjorie, from what dim vision of a sin could that white soul need protection? She began the story of her days, and of her intercourse with Geff Arbuthnot, bravely. ‘I feel half way towards Little Go, Miss Tighe. I get my six hours’ teaching a week, and----’ ‘You have always had teaching in abundance,’ remarked Cassandra, wilfully misinterpreting her. ‘Since you were twelve, you have had Madame Briquebec six hours a week.’ ‘Madame Briquebec--a music mistress!’ ‘Six hours’ lessons, and twelve hours’ practice. It would require a Cambridge mathematician,’ observed Cassandra, ‘to reckon how many years’ solid capital, out of a lifetime, are given by young women to such an instrument as the piano!’ ‘I am not talking of the piano, as you know, Miss Tighe,’ cried Marjorie, the heart within her rallying at the scent of coming strife. ‘I never practised less for poor old Madame Briquebec than I do now. I talk of my six hours’ solid reading with Mr. Arbuthnot.’ ‘Ah! I trust you find Mr. Arbuthnot solidly satisfactory? ‘My tutor thinks well of my staying power. Mr. Arbuthnot sees no reason why, if I gave my life up to it for four years, I should not, some day, come out low in a Tripos.’ ‘Mr. Arbuthnot, like the rest of the world, knows perhaps upon which side his bread is buttered.’ The suggestion was Cassandra’s. ‘Bread--buttered! Let me tell you, ma’am, I think that a most harsh speech! Yes!’ cried Marjorie Bartrand, her face aflame, ‘and verging on spiteful. A speech most unworthy of Cassandra Tighe.’ ‘To my mind the subject scarcely necessitates so much indignation, Marjorie.’ ‘And to mine, it does. If you implied anything, it must be that Mr. Arbuthnot flatters me from motives of self-interest, which is vile.’