"_I_ don't mind Ingrid," Joey boasted, vain-gloriously. "It's rather sport to see what she'll say next." "No talking!" rapped out the Latin master, and Noreen began to gabble over her work to herself with great energy. Joey felt fairly sure of hers, so devoted the spare two or three minutes, while Mr. Reade surveyed his notes, to drawing an extremely fancy portrait of herself and Ingrid walking down the Queen's Hall arm in arm, while portions of the Lower School cowered in doorways, or hurried obsequiously to right and left. This work of art was duly shown to Noreen, as soon as a flustered Barbara was put on to construe; Noreen retorted with a furious "Just you wait!" Joey's assertiveness was kindly ignored in the afternoon, however, in view of the fact that she had won the privilege of meeting the train for her friends, and the three set out very cheerfully and a good ten minutes earlier than they need have done. "How's the Professor?" Joey asked, as they passed the Lab, where she had spent those purgatorial minutes on her first arrival. It had been arranged by Miss Conyngham that she should not take chemistry till next term, in view of the host of bewildering new subjects that descend upon a girl fresh to school. Noreen screwed up her eyes. "Well, his temper isn't on the mend. If he goes on being such a beast I shall cook up a pathetic letter to the pater and tell him I'm overworked." "I should think _he_ is," suggested Gabrielle quietly. "Have you noticed how pouchy he is under the eyes?--as though he didn't get enough sleep." "Well, whatever is the matter with him, he's a holy terror to work with," Noreen declared unsympathetically. "I say, Gabrielle, I wish Joey did take stinks--her uppishness would probably drive him clean over the border, and we shouldn't have to bear with him any more." "You've jolly well got to be uppish here if you don't want to be absolutely squashed," Joey explained. "I expect the Professor has war-strain; there was an English lady came to stay with us who simply couldn't stand Bingo blowing a trumpet anywhere near her because she had that, poor thing." "P'r'aps he has a bad conscience, and is doing something beastly with his stinks," suggested Noreen. "I say, wouldn't it be a good thing to find out which it is? If it's war-strain--well, I'll bear his utter hatefulness and calling me 'fat-head' before the class, with cheerfulness; though I'm sure he's too old and too stout to have fought the Huns--still, he _may_ have done munitions and used his chemistry that way...." "Wasn't he here in the war?" asked Joey. "Rather not. He only came last term, and nobody could stand him then. He's worse now. So if it's an evil conscience--I say, Joey, you old slacker, why don't you take stinks? You could help no end in the Sherlock Holmes business. Tell you what. I'll smuggle you in next time--Cicely Wren is in San with a throat--he won't notice who's there as long as he has his proper tale of jumpy victims."