Bang went the gates of Mary's emotion. Here was awful danger. She laughed. “Oh, I've no time to fall in love, have I?” Margaret sighed her sympathy; then gazed at Mary. Mary read the gaze aright. These were women, and they read one another by knowledge of sex. Mary knew Margaret's gaze to be that of an archer sighting at his mark, estimating the chances of a hit. She saw the arrow that was to come speeding at her breast; gathered her emotions so that she should not flinch at the wound. Margaret twanged the bow-string. “No time to fall in love?” she murmured. She fitted the shaft; let fly. “Do you like George, dear?” Mary stooped to her shoe-laces. Despite her preparations the arrow had pierced, and she hid her face to hide the blood. “George?” said she, head to floor. “Yes, George. Do you like George?” My Mary sat up, brazen. “George? Oh, you mean your cousin? I daresay he's very nice. Practically I've never even spoken to him since I've been here.” “I know. Of course he's very busy just now. Do you think you would like him if you did know him?” It was murderous work. Mary was beginning to quiver beneath the arrows; was in terror lest she should betray the secret. A desperate kick was necessary. She wildly searched for a foothold; found it; kicked: “I'm sure I shouldn't like him.” The poet softly protested: “Oh why, Mary?” “He's clean-shaven.” “And you don't like a--” “I can't stand a--” “But if he had a--” “Oh, if he had a--Margaret, I hear Mr. Marrapit calling. I must fly.” She fled. Upon a sad little sigh the poet moved to her table; drew heliotrope paper towards her; wrote: “Why are your hearts asunder, ye so fair?” A thought came to her then, and she put her pen in her mouth; pursued the idea. That evening she walked to the gate and met George upon his return. After a few paces, “George,” she asked, “do you like Mary?” George was never taken aback. “Mary? Mary who?” “Miss Humfray.” “Oh, is her name Mary?” “Of course it is.” Margaret slipped her arm through George's; gazed up at him. “Do you like her, George?” “Like whom?” “Why, Mary--Miss Humfray.” “Oh, I think she's a little better than Mrs. Major--in some ways. If that's what you mean.” Margaret sighed. Such mulish indifference was a dreadful thing to this girl. But she had set her heart on this romance. “George, dear, I wish you would do something for me.” “Anything.” “How nice you are! Will you grow a moustache?” She anxiously awaited the answer. George took his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes. He did not speak. She asked him: “What is the matter?” He said brokenly: “You know not what you ask. I cannot grow a moustache. It is my secret sorrow, my little cross. There is only one way. It is by pushing up the hairs from inside with the handle of a tooth-brush and tying a knot to prevent them slipping back. You have to do it every morning, and I somehow can never remember it.”