brilliant, and the Warden roused to
attentive interest. What was Gwen to do? There was nobody whom she could
consult. Should she write to her mother? Her mother would scold her!
What, then, was she to do? Perhaps she had better write to her mother,
and let her see that she had, at any rate, tried her best. And in saying
the words to herself "tried her best," Gwen was not speaking the truth
even to herself. She had not tried at all; the whole thing had come
about accidentally. It had somehow happened!

Instead of going straight to bed that evening Gwen seated herself at
the writing-table in her bedroom. She must write a letter to her mother
and ask for advice. The letter must go as soon as possible. Gwen knew
that if she put it off till the morning, it might never get written. She
was always too sleepy to get up before breakfast. In Oxford breakfast
for Dons was at eight o'clock, and that was far too early, as it was,
for Gwen. Then after breakfast, there was "no time" to do anything, and
so on, during the rest of the day.

So Gwen sat at her writing-table and wrote the longest letter she had
ever written. Gwen's handwriting was pointed, it was also shaky, and
generally ran downhill, or else uphill.

"Dear Mummy,

"Please write and tell me what to do? I've done all I could, but
everything is in a rotten muddle. This evening I was crying, crying
a little at your letter--I really couldn't help it--but anyhow it
turned out all right--and the Warden suddenly came along the passage
and saw me. He took me into his library, I don't know how it all
happened, Mummy, but he put his arms round me and told me to come to
him if I wanted a home. He was sweet, and I naturally thought this
was true, and I said 'Yes' and 'Thanks.' There wasn't time for more,
because of dinner. But a Mr. Boarham, who is a sort of cousin of Dr.
Middleton, says that proposals are all words and that you needn't be
married. What am I to do? I don't know if I am really engaged or
not--because the Warden hasn't said anything more--and suppose he
doesn't---- Isn't it rotten? Do write and tell me what to do, for I
feel so queer. What makes me worried is Mrs. Dashwood, a widow,
talks so much. At dinner the Warden seemed so much taken up by
her--quite different. But then after dinner it wasn't like that. We
sat in the drawing-room all the time and at least the men smoked and
Lady Dash