They liked her, but she was of the type whose imperiousness provokes snubs. "Well, I thought I shouldn't get it done under forty--an essay on _The Dark Tower_. It's the beastliest yet. _The Ancient Mariner_ was nothing to it. I've made an awful hash--didn't you?" "I understood all right when she read it, and explained. It's so absurd not to let one take notes. I've been years at it. Fortunately she said we needn't learn it--Louise and I--with all our extra work." An unimaginative hockey captain fluttered her pages distractedly. "Oh, but I have!" Louise looked up quickly. "Why?" The hockey captain opened her eyes and mouth. "Oh, I rather wanted to." The little Jewess giggled. "'_Déjà?_'" she murmured. She did not love Clare. Marion returned to the subject with her usual perseverance. "Did you understand it, kid?" Louise stammered a little. "When she reads it, and when I say it aloud, I think I do. It was impossible to write it down." "Let's see what you have put." Agatha, by a quick movement, possessed herself of Louise's exercise-book. Louise, shy and desperate, strove silently with her neighbours, who, curious, held her back, while Agatha, holding the book at arm's length, recited from it in a high mocking voice. "_Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came._ Description! Description! Description! for three--five--seven pages! You've let yourself go, Louise! Ah, here we are--_The meaning of the poem_. Now we're getting to it. _Shakespeare and Browning may have known all the real history of Childe Roland; the reason of his quest, the secret of the horror of the Tower; but we are left in ignorance. That does not matter, for, as we read, the inner meaning of the terrible poem kills all curiosity. Shuddering we close the book, and pray to God that Childe Roland's journey may never be ours; that for our adventurous souls, knight-erranting through this queer life, there may never come a choice of ways, a turning from the pleasant high-road, to go upon a hideous journey; till, crossing the Plains of Loneliness, Fear and Sorrow, we face the Hills of Madness, and enter the Dark Tower of that Despair which is our soul's death._ With capital letters galore! What a sentence! Here, shut up, you spit-fire!" Louise had wrenched herself free and flung herself upon Agatha, in a white heat of anger. "Give it me! You've no right! You've no right!" she gasped. Her shyness had gone, she was blazing with indignation. Agatha, the book held teasingly out of reach, affected to search for her place. Louise raised her clenched fist desperately. A cool hand caught her wrist in a firm yet kindly grip. A hush fell on the voluble group and Agatha collapsed into an apologetic nonentity.