Veronica was sitting on the floor, staring into the fire, her chin supported by her hand. Veronica, in those rare moments when she is resting from her troubles, wears a holy, far-away expression apt to mislead the stranger. Governesses, new to her, have their doubts whether on these occasions they are justified in dragging her back to discuss mere dates and tables. Poets who are friends of mine, coming unexpectedly upon Veronica standing by the window, gazing upward at the evening star, have thought it was a vision, until they got closer and found that she was sucking peppermints. “I should so like to have a room all to myself,” added Veronica. “It would be a room!” commented Robin. “It wouldn’t have your hairpins sticking up all over the bed, anyhow,” murmured Veronica dreamily. “I like that!” said Robin; “why—” “You’re harder than I am,” said Veronica. “I should wish you to have a room, Veronica,” I said. “My fear is that in place of one untidy bedroom in the house—a room that makes me shudder every time I see it through the open door; and the door, in spite of all I can say, generally is wide open—” “I’m not untidy,” said Robin, “not really. I know where everything is in the dark—if people would only leave them alone.” “You are. You’re about the most untidy girl I know,” said Dick. “I’m not,” said Robin; “you don’t see other girls’ rooms. Look at yours at Cambridge. Malooney told us you’d had a fire, and we all believed him at first.” “When a man’s working—” said Dick. “He must have an orderly place to work in,” suggested Robin. Dick sighed. “It’s never any good talking to you,” said Dick. “You don’t even see your own faults.” “I can,” said Robin; “I see them more than anyone. All I claim is justice.” “Show me, Veronica,” I said, “that you are worthy to possess a room. At present you appear to regard the whole house as your room. I find your gaiters on the croquet lawn. A portion of your costume—an article that anyone possessed of the true feelings of a lady would desire to keep hidden from the world—is discovered waving from the staircase window.” “I put it out to be mended,” explained Veronica. “You opened the door and flung it out. I told you of it at the time,” said Robin. “You do the same with your boots.” “You are too high-spirited for your size,” explained Dick to her. “Try to be less dashing.” “I could also wish, Veronica,” I continued, “that you shed your back comb less easily, or at least that you knew when you had shed it. As for your gloves—well, hunting your gloves has come to be our leading winter sport.” “People look in such funny places for them,” said Veronica. “Granted. But be just, Veronica,” I pleaded. “Admit that it is in funny places we occasionally find them. When looking for your things one learns, Veronica, never to despair. So long as there remains a corner unexplored inside or outside the house, within the half-mile radius, hope need not be abandoned.”