"That always makes me think of you, and I wish I could have you painted so. But you wouldn’t be a bit like it if you had different hair." Jane-Anne was silent for nearly two minutes; then she said thoughtfully: "I rather like Browning’s poetry after all. I’ll quote a bit in my next scripture just to please Miss Willows." At first her position in the school was something of an anomaly. Her exceptional ability and her fleetness of foot gave her an assured place in the school work and games at once. Her personal appearance and her eager charm brought her friends. Then one of the girls, who had asked her to tea, a girl living in a large house in the Woodstock Road, whose people had nothing whatever to do with any of the colleges, discovered that she was no relation to the old gentleman in whose house she lived and that her aunt was his servant. The girl was horrified, told every girl she could get to listen, and always concluded the harangue with the remark: "We all know the school’s mixed enough, but it’s getting a bit too much when they take the daughters of domestic servants. Someone ought to write and complain." She forthwith cut Jane-Anne, as did several others. Jane-Anne was puzzled, then angry, and finally forced the girl to explain her conduct in the playground. "Your aunt’s his servant," the girl concluded, "and we don’t like it." "I’m his servant, too," Jane-Anne said haughtily, "and I’d rather be his servant than your friend any day." "You won’t have much chance of being that," the girl said angrily. "I wouldn’t be seen with you for the world." "The whole of Oxford," cried Jane-Anne, "can see me with him, and he’s a great gentleman and a scholar; and you—you’re a carroty-haired, ill-bred little nobody who can’t write a French exercise without getting somebody else to do half of it." The school took sides, and the best and cleverest half finally sided with Jane-Anne. She never told anybody but Montagu what she had gone through, but whenever any new girl made friendly advances Jane-Anne took care to inform her that Mrs. Dew, Mr. Wycherly’s housekeeper, was her aunt, that she loved her and wasn’t in the least ashamed of it. "And now," she always concluded, "you can go on being friends with me or not, just as you choose."