"A fairly good Second Class level!" repeated Milly, still turning the leaves of the book. "That doesn't sound very exhilarating--and I rather think I shall do as I like about staying there." Tims began to heat. "Well, that's what Stewart said about you. I don't believe I told you half plain enough what Stewart did say, for fear of hurting your feelings. He said you are a good scholar, but barring that, you weren't at all clever." Milly looked up from her book; but she was not tearful. There was a curl in her lip and the light of battle in her eye. "Stewart said that, did he? Now if I were a gentleman I should say--'damn his impudence'--and 'who the devil is Stewart'; but then I'm not. You can say it." Tims stared. "Oh, come, I say!" she exclaimed. "I don't swear, I only quote. But my goodness, when you remember who Stewart is, you'll be--well, pained to think of the language you're using about him." "Why?" asked Milly, her head riding disdainfully on her slender neck. "Because he's your tutor and lecturer--and a regular tiptop man at Greek and all that--and you--you respect him most awfully." "Do I?" cried Milly--"did perhaps in my salad days. I've no respect whatever for professors now, my good Tims. I know what they're like. Here's Stewart for you." She took up a pen and a scrap of paper and dashed off a clever ludicrous sketch of a man with long hair, an immense brow, and spectacles. "Nonsense!" said Tims; "that's not a bit like him." She held the paper in her hand and looked fixedly at it. Milly had been wont seriously to grieve over her hopeless lack of artistic talent and she had never attempted to caricature. Tims was thinking of a young fellow of a college who had lately died of brain disease. In the earlier stages of his insanity, it had been remarked that he had an originality which had not been his when in a normal state. What if her friend were developing the same terrible disease? If it were so, it was no use fussing, since there was no remedy. Still, she felt a desperate need to take some sort of precaution. "If I were you, M.," she said, "I'd go to bed and keep very quiet for a day or two. You're so--so odd, and excited, they'd notice it if you went down-stairs." "Would they?" asked Milly, suddenly sobered. "Would they say I was mad?" An expression of fear came into her face, and its strangely luminous eyes travelled around the room with a look as of some trapped creature seeking escape. There was an awkward pause. "I'm not mad," affirmed Milly, swallowing with a dry throat. "I'm perfectly sensible, but any one would be odd and excited too who was--was as I am--with a number of words and ideas floating in my mind without my having the least idea where they spring from. Please, Tims dear, tell me how I am to behave. I should so hate to be thought queer, wanting in any way." Tims considered.