"When the bitter north wind blows, Very red is Baba's nose,
Very cold are Baba's toes:
When the north wind's blowing.
When the north wind's blowing!"
So sang Monica, rather out of tune¹, as she reached home, in a scratchy mood, on the first afternoon of the January term, and hurried up to the fire.
 
"I don't like school! I don't like it!" she proclaimed to a sympathetic audience of Rosemary, Cousin Elsie, and Richard (who was home on leave). "I call it cruelty to send me every single day to sit for five whole hours at a horrid² little desk, stuffing my head with things I don't want to know, and never shall want to know, if I live to be a hundred. Why must I go?"
 
"Poor kiddie!" laughed Richard. "You've got it badly! It's a disease I used to suffer from myself. They called it 'schoolophobia' when I was young. They cured it with a medicine called 'spinkum-spankum', if I remember rightly—one of those good old-fashioned remedies, don't you know, that our grandmothers always went by."
 
[141]"You're making fun of me!" chafed³ Monica. "And I do really mean what I say. It's cold at school, and horrid, and Miss Davis is always down on me, and I hate it. Why must I go?"
 
"And why must I go back to the trenches⁴?"
 
"Don't!"
 
"All serene⁵! You and I'll find a desert island together somewhere, and live upon it for the rest of our lives. You see, they'd never have us back again if we deserted⁶. We'd have to stop on our island for evermore!"
 
"I thought you liked The Gables?" yawned Elsie. "Vivien does. I'm sure it's a very nice school."
 
"Oh, Vivien! I dare say! It's all very fine for monitresses. But when you're in the Third Form, and your desk's on the cold side of the room, it's the limit. Yes, I dare say I shall get chilblains if I sit close to the fire, but I don't care!"
 
"The first day's always a little grizzly," agreed Lorraine, who had followed Monica to the hearth-rug and joined the circle of fire-worshippers. "One hates getting into harness again after the holidays. I believe Rosemary's the only one of us who really enthuses. You'll be gone, too, by next week, Quavers! But I suppose you really enjoy singing exercises, and having professors storming at you."
 
"Of course I do," said Rosemary, with a rather unconvincing note in her voice.
 
Lorraine glanced at her quickly, but the little [142]brown head was lowered, and shadows hid the sweet face. Lorraine could not understand Rosemary these holidays. She had returned from her first term at the College of Music seemingly as full of enthusiasm as ever, and yet there was "a something". She gave rapturous accounts of pupils' concerts, of singing classes, of fellow-students, of rising stars in the musical world, of favourite teachers, of fun at the College and at the hostel⁷ where she boarded. She had made many new friendships, and was apparently⁸ having the time of her life.
 
"From her accounts you'd think it was all skittles, but I'm sure there's a hitch⁹ somewhere!" mused¹⁰ Lorraine.
 
Rosemary, with her big eyes and bigger aspirations¹¹, had always been more or less of a problem. The family had decided¹² emphatically that she was its genius. They looked for great things from her when her course at the College should be finished. They all experienced a sort of second-hand¹³ credit in her anticipated achievements. It is so nice to have someone else to do the clever things while we ourselves wear a reflected glory thereby¹⁴. Mrs. Forrester, mother-proud of her musical chick, could not refrain from a little gentle boasting about her daughter's talents. She told everybody that she liked girls to have careers, and that parents ought to make every effort to let a gifted child have a chance. In Lorraine's estimation Rosemary's future was to be one round of triumph, ending possibly in a peal¹⁵ of wedding bells. Lorraine was fond of [143]making up romances, and had evolved a highly-satisfactory hero for her sister. He was always tall, but his eyes varied¹⁶ in colour, and he sometimes had a moustache and sometimes was clean-shaven. Though his personal appearance varied from day to day, his general qualities persisted, and he invariably possessed¹⁷ a shooting-box in Scotland, where he would be prepared to extend a warm welcome to his bride's younger sister.
 
Meantime, though Rosemary had been a whole term at the college, her family had no means of judging her progress. She had diligently¹⁸ practised scales, exercises and arpeggios, but had steadfastly¹⁹ refused to sing any songs to them. Vainly they had begged for old favourites; she was obdurate²⁰ to the point of obstinacy²¹.
 
"Signor Arezzo doesn't want me to! I'm studying on his special method, and he's most particular about it. He keeps everybody at exercises for the first term. When I go back he says perhaps he'll let me have just one song."
 
"But surely it couldn't spoil your voice to sing 'My Happy Garden'?" demanded her father, much disappointed.
 
"He forbade it entirely²²!" declared Rosemary emphatically.
 
This new attitude of Rosemary's of hiding her light under a bushel was trying to Lorraine. She had been looking forward to showing off her clever musical sister to Morland. She had expected the two to become chums at once, but they did nothing of the sort. Rosemary treated Morland with the [144]airy patronage²³ that a girl, who has just begun to mix with older men, sometimes metes²⁴ out to a boy of seventeen. She was not nearly as much impressed by his playing as Lorraine had anticipated.
 
"He ought to learn from Signor Rassuli!" she commented. "Nobody who hasn't studied on his method can possibly have a touch!"
 
"But Morland's exquisite²⁵ touch is his great point!" persisted Lorraine indignantly.
 
"I can't stand the boy!" yawned Rosemary.
 
It is always most amazing, when we like a person exceedingly ourselves, to find that somebody else has formed a different opinion. With all his shortcomings, Lorraine appreciated Morland. He often missed his appointments, and was generally late for everything, but when he turned up he played her accompaniments as no one else ever played them. Moreover, he was a very pleasant companion, and full of fun in a mild artistic²⁶ sort of fashion of his own. He was certainly one of the central figures in the beautiful, shiftless, Bohemian household on the hill. Lorraine had a sense that, when he went, the Castleton family would lose its corner stone. Yet some day he would be bound to go.
 
"I expect to be called up in March!" he announced one day.
 
 
 
Lorraine looked at him critically. Morland, with his ripply²⁷ hair and the features of a Fra Angelico angel, would seem out of place in khaki. His dreamy, unpunctual ways and general lack of [145]concentration would be highly exasperating²⁸ to his drill-sergeant. She wondered what would happen when, as usual, he turned up late. Artistic temperaments²⁹ did not fit in well with the stern realities of life. She had a feeling that they ought to be exempted³⁰.
 
Music, this term, was more to the fore³¹ than usual in Lorraine's horizon. After Christmas a fresh teacher had come to the school, who gave lessons in French, violin, and piano. Her name was Madame Bertier, and she was a Russian by birth, though her husband was a Belgian at present interned³² in Germany.
 
She was a new arrival at Porthkeverne, and had rooms in the artists' quarter of the town. She spent her mornings at The Gables, and filled up her afternoons by taking private pupils. Like most Russians, she had a charming manner, and was brimming over with talent. She was a striking-looking woman, with a clear, pale complexion³³, flashing hazel eyes, and carefully arranged coiffure. Her delicate hands were exquisitely³⁴ manicured. She dressed becomingly, and wore handsome rings. Her foreign accent was decidedly pretty.
 
Most of the school, and the Sixth Form in particular, went crazy over her. They admired her frocks, her hair, her earrings³⁵, and the whole charming air of "finish" about her. It became the fashion of the moment to adore her. Those girls who took private music lessons from her were counted lucky. The members of the French class vied with one another in presenting offerings of [146]violets or early snowdrops. She accepted the little bouquets³⁶ as gracefully³⁷ as a prima donna.
 
"She's the most absolutely topping person I've ever met!" affirmed Vivien, who was one of her most ardent³⁸ worshippers.
 
"Um—well enough!" said Lorraine, whose head was not turned by the new idol³⁹. "She's not quite my style, somehow. I always feel she's out for admiration⁴⁰."
 
"Well, she deserves to be admired."
 
"Not so consciously, though."
 
"I think she's too precious for words. It's something even to be in the same room with her!" gushed⁴¹ Audrey. "I've scored over you, Vivien, because she's written two verses in my album, and she only wrote one in yours!"
 
"Yes, but it was original poetry in mine!"
 
"How do you know, when it's in Russian?"
 
"She said so, at any rate."
 
"Oh! I must ask her to put in an original one for me."
 
"She's coming to tea with us to-morrow."
 
"You lucker!"
 
There seem............