Kitty rather wished she had been put in one of the other houses, not because Carslake's was the bottom house and bore rather a poor reputation, but because she was not particularly drawn to any one of her companions there. They were nice girls in their way, but there was not one of them whose tastes were sufficiently in common with Kitty's to make her desirable as a special chum. Hilary was quiet and reserved; besides, she was not allowed to play games, and half Kitty's enjoyment and interest in life came from games and outdoor exercises. Frances Kent was a being from another world altogether. So was the head prefect; her queer personality made no appeal to Kitty, who liked people who said what they meant and called a spade a spade and not a garden implement. "If only jolly Paddy or that clever-looking Salome girl had been in this house," she thought, regretfully, "they would have made things hum between them. But these are evidently a hopeless lot." On the evening of the second day, Hilary came into the study with the announcement, "All seniors to be in Cato's study at three-thirty to-morrow." Afternoon lessons finished at three-fifteen, and from then till tea-time, at five, everybody was free to play games, go for a walk, or, if it were very wet, amuse themselves indoors. "Who's Cato?" inquired Kitty, looking puzzled. "Cato? Why, the Hon. Duane of course. Nearly everyone gets a nickname of some sort. The meeting is to talk over Prinny's little welcoming lecture." "I don't see much good in talking," retorted Kitty. "It's doing that matters." "Well, as far as sports are concerned, I don't see there's much we can do. Duane is the only one who is much good at them. I'm forced to be a looker-on, worse luck. Somebody wants to explode a bomb-shell in our midst and wake everybody up." The seven seniors duly met. Hilary and Kitty were the first arrivals. They found Duane sprawling in the easy-chair with a book in her lap, and Frances, enveloped in an overall of bird-of-paradise hue, busily dabbing at a large sheet of paper mounted on an easel. "Come in, come in," called out the head prefect, in her soft drawl. "I know France is taking up all the room with her horrible mess, but you'll just have to sit down where you can--so long as you don't sit down on tubes of paint. You see what I have to put up with every day! Lumps of putty--I mean clay--everywhere." "Don't rot, Duane," said France. "Art's a serious matter. There's nothing funny about it, as some people seem to think." "'Tisn't the art that's funny, my dear," returned Duane. "It's the artist." "'But what is it supposed to be?" inquired Hilary, surveying the artist's work with puzzled face. The others, who had now all arrived, proffered various suggestions. "A storm at sea," said Margaret. "A futurist--or is it a cubist?--portrait of a lady," suggested Bertha.