The appearance of Brandenburg College belied its pretentious name.  Once upon a time, its name-plate had decorated the gates of a stately old mansion in the Fulham of many years ago; here it was that Mrs Devitt, then Miss Hilda Spraggs, had been educated.  Since those fat days, the name-plate of Brandenburg College had suffered many migrations, always in a materially downward direction, till now it was screwed on the railings of a stuffy little road in Shepherd’s Bush, which, as Mavis was in the habit of declaring, was called West Kensington Park for “short.”

The brass plate, much the worse for wear, told the neighbourhood that Brandenburg College educated the daughters of gentlemen; perhaps it was as well that this definition, like the plate, was fallen on hard times, inasmuch as it was capable of such an elastic interpretation that it enabled the Misses Mee to accept pupils whom, in their prosperous days, they would have refused.  Mavis looked round the familiar, shabby schoolroom, with its atmosphere of ink and slate pencil, to which she was so soon to say “good-bye.”

It looked desolate this morning, perhaps because there leapt to her fancy the animated picture it had presented the day before, when it had been filled by a crowd of pupils (dressed in their best), their admiring parents and friends.

Yesterday’s programme had followed that of all other girls’ school breaking-up celebrations, with the difference that the passages selected for recital had been wholly culled from the writings of Mr Ruskin.  Reference to the same personage had occurred in the speech to the prize-winners (every girl in the school had won a prize of sorts) made by Mr Smiley, the curate, who performed this office; also, the Misses Mee, when opportunity served, had not been backward in making copious references to the occasion on which they had drunk tea with the deceased author.  Indeed, the parents and friends had breathed such an atmosphere of Ruskin that there were eight requests for his works at the local free library during the following week.

“Good old Ruskin!” laughed Mavis, as she ran downstairs to the breakfast room, which was situated in the basement.  Here, the only preparation made for the meal was a not too clean table-cloth spread upon the table.  Mavis went into the kitchen, where she found Amelia, the general servant, doing battle with a smoky kitchen-fire.

“How long before breakfast is ready?” asked Mavis.

“Is that you, miss?  Oi can’t see you properly,” said Amelia, as she turned her head.  “This ’ere smoke had got into my best oye.”