She was a very pretty English girl, whose father--a colonel in an Indian regiment--had sent her to America in the care of a sister of his who had moved to “the States;” and so it had come about that, instead of being a Girton or Newnham girl, she had matriculated at this American college. And now her father had written decisively for her to come out and join him in India, and her college friendships and ties were all to be broken. He had been writing about it for some time, and her illness had finally precipitated the affair. She had only waited until she grew strong enough to start, and the following day had been decided upon. The long sea-voyage would be the very thing for her, the doctor had thought. She was trying to explain to the interested young women just what route she would take, and was rapidly filling their souls with envy at the familiar mention of Brindisi and Cairo and Aden, when there was a knock and a quick opening of the door and a girl came into the room. She was a very beautiful young woman, and when she sat down on the divan beside Miss Lavington she seemed suddenly to absorb all the attention and interest, and to become in some magical way the guest of honor and centre of attraction. She met with a very enthusiastic reception, for she had that afternoon gained the tennis championship for her class--she was a senior--and had not yet changed her white flannel suit with scarlet sumach leaves worked on it, and as she dragged off her soft cap, one could see that her hair still lay in damp curls upon her forehead.