ou the truth,
at this moment he is particularly engaged in looking the other way."

But Miss Quincey did not know that lady. She knew no one but Rhoda and
Mrs. Moon; and if Mrs. Moon was too old, Rhoda was too young to take that
view; besides, Mrs. Moon was not a woman of the world and no ridiculous
delicacy prompted her to look the other way. In any case Juliana's state
of mind, advertised as it was by her complexion and many eccentricities
of behaviour, could not have escaped her notice.

The Old Lady had reverted to her former humorous attitude, and was trying
whether Juliana's state of mind would not yield to skilfully directed
banter. In these tactics she was not left unsupported. Louisa had written
a long letter about her husband and her children, with a postscript.

"P.S.--I don't half like what you tell me about Juliana and Dr. C--. For
goodness' sake don't encourage her in any of that nonsense. Sit on it.
Laugh her out of it. I agree with you that it would be better if she
cultivated her mind a little more.

"P.P.S.--Andrew has just come in. He says we oughtn't to call her
Juliana, but Fooliana."

So laughed Louisa, the married woman.

And Fooliana she was called. The joke was quite unworthy of the Greek
Professor's reputation, but for Mrs. Moon's purposes he could hardly have
made a better one.

Louisa had put a terrible weapon into the Old Lady's hands. It was
many weapons in one. It could be turned on in all its broad robust
humour--"Fooliana!" Or refined away into a playful or delicate
suggestion, pointed with an uplifted finger--"Fooli!" Or cut down and
compressed into its essential meaning--"Fool!"

But whichever missile came handy, the effect was much the same. Juliana's
complexion grew redder or grayer, but her state of mind remained
unchanged. Sometimes the Old Lady tried a graver method.

"If you would cultivate your mind a little in the evenings you would have
no time for all this nonsense."

But Juliana had abandoned the cultivation of her mind. She made no
attempt to pay off that small outstanding debt to _Sordello._ There was
an end of the intellectual life; for the living wells of literature were
tainted; Browning had become a bitter memory and Tennyson a shame.

But if Miss Quincey had no heart for General Culture, she was busier than
ever in the discharge of her regular duties. At the end of the midsummer
term the pressure on the staff was heavy. Her work had grown with the
growth