brought out a brown-paper-covered book from her desk, which she
handed to Mavis.

"It's 'Richard Feverel'; if you haven't read it, you can take it
home."

"Thanks. I'll take great care of it. I haven't read it."

"Not read Richard Feverel?" asked Miss Toombs, as she raised her
eyebrows, but did not look at Mavis.

"Is it always easy like this?" Mavis asked of Miss Hunter, as they
were putting on their things at half-past four.

"You call it easy?"

"Very. Is it always like this?"

"Always, except just before Christmas, when there's a bit of a rush,
worse luck," replied Miss Hunter, to add after a moment: "It
interferes with one's social engagements."

Mavis walked to her rooms with a light heart. It was good to tread
the hard, firm roads, with their foundation of rock, to meet and be
greeted by the ruddy-faced, solidly built Wiltshire men and women,
many of whom stopped to stare after the comely, graceful girl with
the lithe stride.

When Mavis had had tea and had settled herself comfortably by the
fire with her book, she felt wholly contented and happy. Now and