he's a journalist and
ought to know."

"I should rather think he ought."

"Well, I mean to have a shot at it."

"And you, Laura?" M. P. asked suavely.

"Me?--Oh, goodness knows!"

"Close as usual, Infant."

"No, really not, Cupid."

"Well, you'll soon have to make up your mind to something now. You're
nearly sixteen.--Why not go on working for your B.A.?"

"No thanks! I've had enough of that here." And Laura's thoughts waved
their hands, as it were, to the receding figure of Oliver Cromwell.

"Be a teacher, then."

"M.P.! I never want to hear a date or add up a column of figures again."

"Laura!"

"It's the solemn truth. I'm fed up with all those blessed things."

"Fancy not having a single wish!"

"Wish? ... oh, I've tons of wishes. First I want to be with Evvy again.
And then, I want to see things--yes, that most of all. Hundreds and
thousands of things. People, and places, and what they eat, and how
they dress, and China, and Japan ... just tons."

"You'll have to hook a millionaire for that, my dear."

"And perhaps you'll write a book about your travels for us
stay-at-homes."

"Gracious! I shouldn't know how to begin. But you'll send me all you
write--all YOUR books--won't you, Cupid? And, M. P., you'll let me come
and see you get your degrees--every single one."

With these and similar promises the three girls parted. They never met
again. For a time they exchanged letters regularly, many-sheeted
letters, full of familiar, personal detail. Then the detail ceased, the
pages grew fewer in number, the time-gap longer. Letters in turn gave
place to mere notes and postcards, scribbled in violent haste, at wide
intervals. And ultimately even these ceased; and the great silence of
separation was unbroken. Nor were the promises redeemed: there came to
Laura neither gifts of books nor calls to be present at academic
robings. Within six months of leaving school, M. P. married and settled
down in her native township; and thereafter she was forced to adjust
the rate of her progress to the steps of halting little feet. Cupid
went a-governessing, and spent the best years of her life in the
obscurity of the bush.

And Laura? ... In Laura's case, no kindly Atropos snipped the thread of
her aspirations: these, large, vague, extemporary, one and all achieved
fulfilment; then withered off to make room for more. But this, the
future still securely hid from her. She went out from school with the
uncomfortable