called out greetings to each other, and exchanged dolorous mutual
condolences on their hard fate; all showing, with a helpless masculine
naïveté, their consciousness of the lovely, observant figure in the
carriage below them. Of a different sort were the professors' wives,
who occasionally drifted past on the path. Aunt Victoria might have
been a blue-uniformed messenger-boy for all that was betrayed by their
skilfully casual glance at her and then away, and the subsequent
directness of their forward gaze across the campus. Mrs.
Marshall-Smith had for both these manifestations of consciousness of
her presence the same imperturbable smile of amusement. "They are
delightful, these colleagues of your father's!" she told Sylvia.
Sylvia had hoped fervently that the stylish Mrs. Hubert might see
her in this brief apotheosis, and one day her prayer was answered.
Straight down the steps of the Main Building they came, Mrs. Hubert
glistening in shiny blue silk, extremely unaware of Aunt Victoria,
the two little girls looking to Sylvia like fairy princesses, with
pink-and-white, lace-trimmed dresses, and big pink hats with rose
wreaths. Even the silk laces in their low, white kid shoes were of
pink to match the ribbons, which gleamed at waist and throat and
elbow. Sylvia watched them in an utter admiration, and was beyond
measure shocked when Aunt Victoria said, after they had stepped
daintily past, "Heavens! What a horridly over-dressed family! Those
poor children look too absurd, tricked out like that. The one nearest
me had a sweet, appealing little face, too."

"That is Eleanor," said Sylvia, with a keen, painful recollection of
the scene a year ago. She added doubtfully, "Didn't you think their
dresses pretty, Aunt Victoria?"

"I thought they looked like pin-cushions on a kitchen-maid's