“Well,” said Harriet, “You are a young idiot, aren’t you?”

Miss Cattermole dismally agreed.

“What’s the sense of it?” said Harriet. “You have contrived to commit every crime in the calendar and got dashed little fun out of it, haven’t you? You’ve attended a meeting in a man’s rooms after Hall without leave, and you oughtn’t to have got leave, because you gate-crashed the meeting. That’s a social crime as well as a breach of rules. In any case, you were out after nine, without putting your initials in the book. That would cost you two bob. You came back to College after 11.15 without extra late leave-which would be five shillings. You returned, in fact, after midnight, which would be ten shillings, even if you had had leave. You climbed the wall, for which you ought to be gated; and finally, you came in blotto, for which you ought to be sent down. Incidentally, that’s another social crime. What have you got to say, prisoner at the bar? Is there any reason why sentence should not be passed upon you? Have a cigarette.”

“Thank you,” said Miss Cattermole, faintly.

“If,” said Harriet, “you hadn’t, by this silly piece of work, contrived to clear yourself of the suspicion of being the College lunatic, I should go to the Dean. As it is, the episode has had its usefulness, and I’m inclined to be merciful.”

Miss Cattermole looked up.

“Did something happen while I was out?”

“Yes, it did.”

“Oh-h-h!” said Miss Cattermole, and burst into tears.

Harriet watched her for a few minutes and then brought out a large clean handkerchief from a drawer and silently handed it over.

“You can forget all that,” said Harriet, when the victim’s sobs had died down a little. “But do chuck all this nonsense. Oxford isn’t the place for it. You can run after young men any time-God knows the world’s full of them. But to waste three years which are unlike anything else in one’s lifetime is ridiculous. And it isn’t fair to College. It’s not fair to other Oxford women. Be a fool if you like-I’ve been a fool in my time and so have most people-but for heaven’s sake do it somewhere where you won’t let other people down.” Miss Cattermole was understood to say, rather incoherently, that she hated College and loathed Oxford, and felt no responsibility towards those institutions.

“Then why,” said Harriet, “are you here?”

“I don’t want to be here; I never did. Only my parents were so keen. My mother’s one of those people who work to get things open to women-you know-professions and things. And father’s a lecturer in a small provincial University. And they’ve made a lot of sacrifices and things.”

Harriet thought Miss Cattermole was probably the sacrificial victim. “I didn’t mind coming up, so much,” went on Miss Cattermole; “because I was engaged to somebody, and he was up, too, and I thought it would be fun and the silly old Schools wouldn’t matter much. But I’m not engaged to him any more and how on earth can I be expected to bother about all this dead-and-gone History?”

“I wonder they bothered to send you to Oxford, if you didn’t want to go, and were engaged.”

“Oh! but they said that didn’t make any difference. Every woman ought to have a University education, even if she married. And now, of course, they say what a good thing it is I still have my College career. And I can’t make them understand that I hate it! They can’t see that being brought up with everybody talking education all round one is enough to make one loathe the sound of it. I’m sick of education.”

Harriet was not surprised.

“What should you have liked to do? I mean, supposing the complication about your engagement hadn’t happened?”

“I think,” said Miss Cattermole, blowing her nose in a final manner and taking another cigarette, “I think I should have liked to be a cook. Or possibly a hospital nurse, but I think I should have been better at cooking. Only, you see, those are two of the things Mother’s always trying to get people out of the way of thinking women’s sphere ought to be restricted to.”

“There’s a lot of money in good cooking,” said Harriet.

“Yes-but it’s not an educational advance. Besides, there’s no school of Cookery at Oxford, and it had to be Oxford, you see, or Cambridge, because of the opportunity of making the right kind of friends. Only I haven’t made any friends. They all hate me. Perhaps they won’t so much, now that the beastly letters-”

“Quite so,” said Harriet, hastily, fearing a fresh outburst. “How about Miss Briggs? She seems to be a very good sort.”

“She’s awfully kind. But I’m always having to be grateful to her. It’s very depressing. It makes me want to bite.”

“How right you are,” said Harriet, to whom this was a direct hit over the solar plexus. “I know. Gratitude is simply damnable.”

“And now,” said Miss Cattermole, with devastating candour, “I’ve got to grateful to you.”

“You needn’t be. I was serving my own ends as much as yours. But I’ll tell you what I’d do. I’d stop trying to do sensational things, because it’s apt to get you into positions where you have to be grateful. And I’d stop chasing undergraduates, because it bores them to tears and interrupts their work. I’d tackle the History and get through Schools. And then I’d turn round and say, ‘Now I’ve done what you want me to, and I’m going to be a cook.’ And stick to it.”

“Would you?”

“I expect you want to be very truly run after, like Old Man Kangaroo. Well, good cooks are. Still, as you’ve started here on History, you’d better worry on at it. It won’t hurt you, you know. If you learn how to tackle your subject-any subject-you’ve learnt how to tackle all subjects.”

“Well,” said Miss Cattermole, in rather an unconvinced tone, “I’ll try.”

Harriet went away in a rage and tackled the Dean. “Why do they send these people here? Making themselves miserable and taking up the place of people who would enjoy Oxford? We haven’t got room for women who aren’t and never will be scholars. It’s all right for the men’s colleges to have hearty passmen who gambol round and learn to play games so that they can gambol and game in Prep. Schools. But this dreary little devil isn’t even hearty. She’s a wet mess.”

“I know,” said the Dean, impatiently. “But schoolmistresses and parents are such jugginses. We do our best, but we can’t always weed out their mistakes. And here’s my secretary-called away, just when we’re all so busy, because her tiresome little boy’s got chicken-pox at his infuriating school. On, dear! I oughtn’t to talk like that, because he’s a delicate child and naturally children must come first, but it is too crushing!”

“I’ll be off,” said Harriet. “It’s a shame you should have to be working of an afternoon and a shame of me to interrupt. By the way, I may as well tell you that Cattermole had an alibi for last night’s affair.”

“Had she? Good! That’s something. Though I suppose it means more suspicion on our miserable selves. Still, facts are facts. Miss Vane, what was the noise in the quad last night? And who was the young man you were bear-leading? I didn’t ask this morning in Common-Room, because I had an idea you didn’t want me to.”

“I didn’t,” said Harriet.

“And you don’t?”

“As Sherlock Holmes said on another occasion: ‘I think we must ask for an amnesty in that direction.’”

The Dean twinkled shrewdly at her.

“Two and two make four. Well, I trust you.”

“But I was going to suggest a row of revolving spikes on the wall of the Fellows’ Garden.”

“Ah!” said the Dean. “Well, I don’t want to know things. And most of it’s sheer cussedness. They want to make heroes and heroines of themselves. Last week of term’s the worst for wall-climbing. They make bets. Have to work ’em off before the end of term. Tiresome little cuckoos. All the same, it can’t be allowed.”

“It won’t happen again, I fancy, with this particular lot.”