can't get that First, you know; you're
on a fairly good Second Class level, and you'd better make up your mind
to stay there."

"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