and had a wonderful tongue; she dressed perfectly, had snowy hair, a kind face, a sweet smile, gentle ways, and a perfectly venomous disposition. Marjorie did not like her Aunt Julia. She did not like Miss Matthieson much better--a sentimental woman. Miss Dean was too chilly a person to like exactly; Marjorie respected her sometimes. But she did like Maurice, and she liked the music that he was playing now. “That is awfully nice,” she said, when the piece was finished. “What is it?” Marjorie’s aunt Julia had asked the same question of him the night before in the drawing-room, and he had told her that the piece was by Grieg, which was untrue, and which he knew to be untrue. He was not aware that that cheerful, spiteful, and horribly intellectual old lady also knew that he was lying. He had felt it better to blaspheme the name of Grieg than to give her a chance by owning that he had composed the thing himself. He was a young man of dangerously diverse talents. He was just at the end of his first year at Cambridge, and was reading for the Classical Tripos. Now the Classical Tripos is a jealous mistress, and admits of no rivals. Nevertheless, he had become a very fair oar, was socially popular, and had devoted much time to psychology and more to music. The end of such a course is generally failure. He did not mind telling Marjorie about the little dance he had just been playing. “Well,” he said, “I have a general impression that it is mine; but there’s a touch of Grieg about it. In fact, I risked telling your aunt Julia last night that it was Grieg’s. I daren’t tell her it was mine.” “Yes,” said Marjorie sadly, “she is awful. She pats me gently on the head, and tells me I’m a good little child, and that I may run away to the nursery and play. It’s perfectly maddening. She knows as well as I do that I’m nearly fifteen, and that it’s absolute nonsense to talk like that. She does it on purpose to make me angry, and I hate being angry.” Maurice took a long sip at his cold tea. “Yes,” he said, “the people in this world want sorting. Have you finished your piece about the beetle and the gridirons?” “Oh, yes! There’s nothing in it really about gridirons, but a beetle comes into it--a dead beetle----” “By Jove!” said Maurice suddenly, thrusting his hand into his pocket, “that reminds me!” He pulled out the dead body of Thomas, and laid it carefully on the table. “There,” he said, “what do you think of that?” “It’s perfectly horrible,” said Marjorie. “Where did you get it? What did you do it for?” “I strolled on to the common after tennis for a smoke, and I happened to find it. I used to collect these things when I was at school. I suppose I picked it up from force of habit, but I’m sure I don’t know. You ought not to call it horrible, you know. It’s really a fine specimen of its kind.” Marjorie looked at it more closely, turning it over with the end of a penholder.