In a spacious drawing-room at the north side of the college she found her mother, a slight woman in widow’s weeds, with faded brown hair, and tearful eyes. With her were Mrs. Jansenius and her daughter. The two elder ladies kept severely silent whilst Agatha kissed them, and Mrs. Wylie sniffed. Henrietta embraced Agatha effusively. “Where’s Uncle John?” said Agatha. “Hasn’t he come?” “He is in the next room with Miss Wilson,” said Mrs. Jansenius coldly. “They want you in there.” “I thought somebody was dead,” said Agatha, “you all look so funereal. Now, mamma, put your handkerchief back again. If you cry I will give Miss Wilson a piece of my mind for worrying you.” “No, no,” said Mrs. Wylie, alarmed. “She has been so nice!” “So good!” said Henrietta. “She has been perfectly reasonable and kind,” said Mrs. Jansenius. “She always is,” said Agatha complacently. “You didn’t expect to find her in hysterics, did you?” “Agatha,” pleaded Mrs. Wylie, “don’t be headstrong and foolish.” “Oh, she won’t; I know she won’t,” said Henrietta coaxingly. “Will you, dear Agatha?” “You may do as you like, as far as I am concerned,” said Mrs. Jansenius. “But I hope you have more sense than to throw away your education for nothing.” “Your aunt is quite right,” said Mrs. Wylie. “And your Uncle John is very angry with you. He will never speak to you again if you quarrel with Miss Wilson.” “He is not angry,” said Henrietta, “but he is so anxious that you should get on well.” “He will naturally be disappointed if you persist in making a fool of yourself,” said Mrs. Jansenius. “All Miss Wilson wants is an apology for the dreadful things you wrote in her book,” said Mrs. Wylie. “You’ll apologize, dear, won’t you?” “Of course she will,” said Henrietta. “I think you had better,” said Mrs. Jansenius. “Perhaps I will,” said Agatha. “That’s my own darling,” said Mrs. Wylie, catching her hand. “And perhaps, again, I won’t.” “You will, dear,” urged Mrs. Wylie, trying to draw Agatha, who passively resisted, closer to her. “For my sake. To oblige your mother, Agatha. You won’t refuse me, dearest?” Agatha laughed indulgently at her parent, who had long ago worn out this form of appeal. Then she turned to Henrietta, and said, “How is your caro sposo? I think it was hard that I was not a bridesmaid.” The red in Henrietta’s cheeks brightened. Mrs. Jansenius hastened to interpose a dry reminder that Miss Wilson was waiting.