three months. _Isn't_ she lucky to have been _born_ in India, and to
have had an ayah, a kind of native nurse, you know, who _still_
worships her, and writes to her, and sends _real_ Indian presents, and
to have had a V.C. for a father--Leonie, I mean?"

Annie Smith laughed that happy laugh which is the outcome of a
perfectly contented mind. "She deserves all the luck she gets, and
what luck for _us_ having her as head next term. What a favourite she
is with everyone, even old Signer Valenti! Oh, dear, I wish
to-morrow's exams were over; my fingers feel just like blanc-mange when
I think of that nocturne."

"Never say die, Ann! _Have_ you heard Leonie play the Moonlight?"

"No! What's it like?"

"Simply _awful_, just like Mam'zel when she thumps downstairs in her
felt slippers."

There fell a space of drowsy silence in which the girls lay back on the
grass incline, and solemnly munched chocolates with youth's delightful
dissociation from anything more perplexing than the passing of the
actual hour.

"No!" murmured Annie Smith, breaking the drowsy spell. "She's _not_
like us--couldn't be with a V.C. father and India as a birthright. But
isn't it all _wonderfully_ mysterious?"

Dear unsophisticated soul, whose _wanderlust_ was yearly arrested, or
rather satisfied, with the summer holiday by the sea, and whose rector