flirt," but all the
same he was jolly, had a hearty, affable manner, and a habit of making
bad jokes and weak puns to break up the monotony of his lectures. It
was decidedly the fashion to admire him, to snigger indulgently at
his mild little pleasantries, and to call him "an old dear." Some of
the girls even worked quite hard at their preparation for him. He had
written his autograph in at least nineteen birthday books, and it was
rumoured that, when the auspicious 10th of March had come round, no
less than fourteen anonymous congratulatory picture post-cards had
been directed to him from the school and posted by stealth. Having
already improved their minds upon a course of English Classics and
Astronomy, the school this term was booked for culture, and devoted to
the study of the fine arts of the Middle Ages. A few selected members
of the Sixth had been told off to search through back numbers of _The
Studio_ and _The Connoisseur_ for examples of the paintings of Cimabue
and Giotto, and the large engraving of Botticelli's "Spring," which
used to hang in Miss Beasley's study, now occupied a prominent
position on the dining-room wall to afford a mental feast during
meal-times.

Raymonde, anxious not to overdo things, left Cynthia to herself for
the rest of the day; but the following morning, after breakfast, she
seized an opportunity for a few words with her.

"You won't mind my giving you a hint or two on school etiquette?" she
observed casually. "You see, there are traditions in every school that
one likes to keep up, and of course you can't find them out unless
you're told."

"I'd be very glad," gushed Cynthia gratefully. "We'd a regular code at
The Poplars, and I used to initiate everybody. They always came
straight to me, and I coached them up. I can't tell you how many new
girls I've helped in my time!"

"Well, you're new yourself now," said Raymonde, detaching Cynthia's
mind from these reminiscences of past service and bringing it up to
date. "Professor Marshall's coming to-day, and you'll have to be
introduced to him."

"Oh dear! I'm so shy! I wonder what he'll think of me?" fluttered
Cynthia.

"Think you're the sickliest idiot he ever met!" was on the tip of
Raymonde's tongue, but she restrained herself, and, drawing her victim
aside, whispered honeyed words calculated to soothe and cheer, adding
some special items of good advice.

"Thank you," sighed Cynthia. "I won't forget. Of course, we never did