ion, which she hoped to achieve in the coming winter. Of
her intimate acquaintances only one could lay claim to intellectual
superiority, and even she, Nancy Lord to wit, shrank from the ordeals of
Burlington House. To become B.A., to have her name in the newspapers, to
be regarded as one of the clever, the uncommon women--for this Jessica
was willing to labour early and late, regardless of failing health,
regardless even of ruined complexion and hair that grew thin beneath the
comb.

She talked only of the 'exam,' of her chances in this or that 'paper,'
of the likelihood that this or the other question would be 'set.'
Her brain was becoming a mere receptacle for dates and definitions,
vocabularies and rules syntactic, for thrice-boiled essence of history,
ragged scraps of science, quotations at fifth hand, and all the
heterogeneous rubbish of a 'crammer's' shop. When away from her books,
she carried scraps of paper, with jottings to be committed to memory.
Beside her plate at meals lay formulae and tabulations. She went to bed
with a manual and got up with a compendium.

Nancy, whose pursuit of 'culture' followed a less exhausting track,
regarded the girl with a little envy and some compassion. Esteeming
herself in every respect Jessica's superior, she could not help a slight
condescension in the tone she used to her; yet their friendship had much
sincerity on both sides, and each was the other's only confidante. As
soon as the mathematical difficulty could be set aside, Nancy began to
speak of her private troubles.

'The Prophet was here last night,' she said, with a girlish grimace.
'He's beginning again. I can see it coming. I shall have to snub him
awfully next time.'

'Oh, what a worry he is!'

'Yes, but there's something worse. I suspected that the Pasha knew of
it; now I feel sure he's encouraging him.'

By this oriental style Nancy signified her father. The Prophet was her
father's partner in business, Mr. Samuel Bennett Barmby.

'I feel sure now that they talked it over when the Prophet was taken
into partnership. I was thrown in as a "consideration."'

'But how could your father possibly think--?'

'It's hard to say what he _does_ think about me. I'm afraid I shall
have to have a talk with him. If so, it will be a long talk, and a very
serious talk. But he isn't well just now, and I must put it off.'

'He isn't well?'

'A touch of gout, he says. Two days last week he didn't go to business,
and h