"There, there, firebrand!" said Mona, much relieved to see the old Lucy again, "I think you and I have been known to say as much as that of our betters. In truth, it did me a world of good. I was very morbid about going back to the anatomy-room--partly because I had got out of tune with the work, partly because I knew nobody would know what to say to me, and there would be an awkward choice between constrained remarks and more constrained silences. It was a great relief to find myself and my failures taken frankly for granted. How I wish people could learn that, unless they can be superlatively tactful, it is better not to be tactful at all; for of tact it is more true than of anything else, that _ars est celare artem_. But, to return to the point we started from, there is a great deal of truth in what Miss Lascelles said. For the next four months I am going to spend my life _driving in nails_." Lucy shivered. "Couldn't you screw them in?" she suggested. "It would make so much less noise." Mona reflected for a moment. "No," she said, "there is something in the idea of a good sharp rap with the hammer that gives relief to my injured feelings." And she brought her closed fist on the table with a force that sent a ruddy glow across her white knuckles. "And now," she said, "it is your innings. I want to know so many things. How do you like hospital?" "Oh, it is awfully interesting;" but Lucy's manner was not enthusiastic. "I spotted a presystolic murmur yesterday." "H'm. Who said it was a presystolic? Did not you find it very cold coming back to London from the sunny South?" Lucy shivered again. "It was horrid," she said. "And you really had a good, gay, light-hearted time?" It was a full minute before the girl answered, "Oh yes," she said hurriedly and emphatically. "It was delightful. I--I was not thinking." "That is just what you were doing. A penny for your thoughts." Again there was a silence. Evidently Lucy was strongly tempted to make a clean breast of it. "I am in my father's black books," she said at last. Mona looked at her searchingly. That the statement was true, she did not doubt; but that this was the sole cause of Lucy's evident depression, she did not believe for a moment. "How have you contrived to get there?" she asked. "It is not such a remarkable feat as you think. I went to Monte Carlo with the Munros." "Did he object?" "Awfully! You see, when I came to write about it, I thought I would wait and tell them when I got home: but Mr Wilson, one of the churchwardens, saw me there, and the story leaked out." "But you did not play?" "No--not to call playing. Evelyn was so slow--I pushed her money into place with the cue. But my father does not think so much of that. It is my being there at all that he objects to." "Just for once?" "Just for once. He said you would not have gone."