It was a wet evening, and Bloomsbury seemed the wettest place in London as the two girls turned into the sparse lamplight of Mecklenburg Square and hurried along under the dank, fast-fading planes and elms. Inside the house, however, there was an air of energetic jollity owing to the arrival of several girl students from Oxford and Cambridge, who stumped in and out of the rooms, greeting each other with tales of Swiss mountains and comparisons of industry. In their strong, low-heeled boots they stumped about consumed by holiday sunshine and the acquisition of facts. With friendly smiles and fresh complexions, they talked enthusiastically to several young men, whose Adam's apples raced up and down their long necks, giving them the appearance of chickens swallowing maize very quickly. "Talk about funny turns," whispered Jenny. "They're all very clever," Miss Vergoe apologized, as she steered her intolerant friend past the group. "Yes, I should say they ought to be clever, too. They _look_ as though they were pecking each other's brains out." Miss Bailey encountered them here. "Why, this is capital," she said. "Miss Ragstead won't be long now. Let me introduce a dear young friend of mine, Miss Worrill." "How are you?" Miss Worrill asked heartily. She was a pleasant girl dressed in Harris tweed strongly odorous from the rain. Her hair might have been arranged to set off her features to greater advantage, and it was a pity her complexion was spoilt by a network of tiny purple veins which always attracted the concentration of those who talked to her. Jenny began to count them at once. "Come to hear Connie Ragstead?" asked Miss Worrill. "Jolly good crowd for August," she went on, throwing a satisfied glance round the room. "Have you ever heard her?" "No," Jenny replied, wondering why something in this girl's way of speaking reminded her of Maurice. "You'll like her most awfully. I met her once at the Lady Maggie 'Gaudy.'" "At the what?" "Our Gaude at Lady Margaret's. Festive occasion and all that. I say, do you play hockey? I'm getting up a team to play at Wembley this winter." "My friend and I are too busy," Miss Vergoe explained, looking nervously round at Jenny to see how she took the suggestion. "But one can always find time for 'ecker.'" "I _could_ find time to fly kites. Only I don't want to," said Jenny dangerously. "You see, I'm on the stage." "I'm frightfully keen on the stage," Miss Worrill volunteered. "I believe it could be such a force. I thought of acting myself once--you know, in real plays, not musical comedy, of course. A friend of mine was in the 'Ecclesiasuzae' at the Afternoon Theater. She wore a _rather_ jolly vermilion tunic and had bare legs. Absolutely realistic." Jenny now began to giggle, and whispered "Cocoanut knees" to Lilli, who, notwithstanding the importance of the occasion, also began to giggle. So Miss Worrill, presumably shy of their want of sensibility, retired.