disagreeable an ordeal as she had anticipated, for, after the first
expressions of surprise, nobody had referred again to Rotherwood; yet
Ingred, on the look-out for slights, imagined that she was not treated
with as much consideration as formerly. Avis Marlowe and Jess Howard had
hardly spoken to her, and, though the omission was probably owing to
sheer lack of time or opportunity, she chose to set it down to a desire
to show her the cold shoulder.

"Now I have no parties to offer them, they don't care about me!" she
thought bitterly. "They'll hunt about till they find somebody else who's
likely to act entertainer."

Fortunately, as Ingred stepped out of the College on that first Friday
afternoon, the fresh breeze and the bright September sunshine blew away
the cobwebs, and sent her almost dancing down the street. She had a
naturally buoyant disposition, and her uppermost thought was: "I'm going
home! I'm going home! Hurrah!"

The journey was really quite a little business. She had to take a tram
to the Waterstoke terminus, then change on to a light electric railway
that ran along the roadside for seven miles to Wynch-on-the-Wold.
Grovebury, an old town that dated back to mediæval times, lay in a deep
hollow among a rampart of hills, so that, in whatever direction you left
it, you were obliged to climb. The scenery was very beautiful, for trees
edged the river, and clothed the slopes till they gave way to the gorse
and heather of the wild moorlands. Wynch-on-the-Wold was a hamlet which,
since the opening of the electric railway, was just beginning to turn
into a suburb of Grovebury. Close to the terminus neat villas had sprung
up like mushrooms; there were a few shops and a branch post office, and
a brass plate to the effect that Dr. Whittaker had consulting hours