"Do you think that has anything to do with it? I often like people without knowing them a bit," said Grace cordially; "and certainly I quite often dislike them thoroughly, even if I've only heard them speak once, or perhaps not at all." "Then you judge by appearances, which is a great mistake." Miss Jones said in a thoughtful manner that she didn't think it was _that_ exactly, and supposed regretfully that Miss Marsh would think she was "swanking" if she explained that she considered herself a sound and rapid judge of character. "Oh, what a sweet camisole, dear!" "My petticoat-bodice," said Grace matter-of-factly. "I'm glad you like it. The ribbon always takes a long time to put in, but it does look rather nice. I like mauve better than pink or blue." There came a knock at the door. "Come in!" called Miss Jones, bare-armed and bare-legged in the middle of the room. "Wait a minute!" exclaimed the scandalized Miss Marsh, in the midst of a shuffling process by which her clothes were removed under the nightgown which hung round her with empty flapping sleeves. "It's only me," said Miss Plumtree in melancholy tones, walking in. "I'm just waiting for my kettle to boil." The gas-ring was on the landing just outside the bedroom door. Grace looked up. "How pretty you look with your hair down!" she said admiringly. "Me? Rubbish!" exclaimed Miss Plumtree, colouring with astonishment and embarrassment, but with a much livelier note in her voice. "Your hair is so nice," explained Grace, gazing at the soft brown mop of curls. "Oh, lovely, of course." Miss Plumtree wriggled with confusion, and had no mind to betray how much the unaffected little bit of praise had restored her spirits. But she sat down on Grace's bed in her pink cotton kimono in a distinctly more cheerful frame of mind than that in which she had entered the room. "Are you in the blues, Gooseberry-bush?" was the sympathetic inquiry of Miss Marsh. "Well, I am, rather. It's Miss Vivian, you know. She can be awfully down on one when she likes." "I know; you always do seem to get on the wrong side of her. Grace will sympathize; she's just been abusing her like a pickpocket," said Miss Marsh, apparently believing herself to be speaking the truth. Miss Jones raised her eyebrows rather protestingly, but said nothing. She supposed that in an atmosphere of adulation such as that which appeared to her to surround Miss Vivian, even such negative criticism as was implied in an absence of comment might be regarded seriously enough. "But even if one doesn't like her _awfully_ much, she has a sort of fascination, don't you think?" said Miss Plumtree eagerly. "I always feel like a--a sort of bird with a sort of snake, you know." The modification which she wished to put into this trenchant comparison was successfully conveyed by the qualifying "sort of," an adverb distinctly in favour at the Hostel.