“They won’t, eh?” type broke out in that challenge.  “Well, that is just what I wanted to see you about.  I suppose I’m not good enough to go to your rooms.”  Lip curled, nostrils quivered and head jerked up impertinently with that accusation.

“Why, Miss Duncan—­” floundered Jane.

“Why don’t you call me Shirley?  Isn’t that a swell enough name?” interrupted the other.

Jane dropped down on the summer house seat with a thud.  Here was a problem surely.  Antagonism fairly blazed in the girl’s dark eyes.  Yet she was a stranger—­actually Jane’s guest.

“Shirley is a very sweet name and I have always loved it,” replied Jane frankly.  “But my dear young lady, we must not quarrel.  We shall never get acquainted that way.”

“Oh no, the juniors may do all the quarreling.  We freshies must just turn the other cheek of course.  But I suppose you know that long lanky friend of yours, they call some foolish name like Doses, hit me on the head with her hammer the other night?”

“You mean Dozia Dalton—­yes, she told me her hammer slipped—­”

“Slipped indeed!” more scorn and lip curling.  “She deliberately dropped it on my head—­”

“And you threw it at the mirror,” broke out Jane, weary of acting the angel without gaining the slightest return from this rude girl.

“Yes, I broke it and I’m glad of it!  Now what are you going to do about it?” Two hands not really pretty, dug deep into the satin skirt pockets, and Shirley Duncan towered over Jane Allen defiantly.

“What am I going to do about it?” repeated Jane.  But the irony was lost on her companion.  “You did not ask to see me just to be offensive?” parried Jane.

“No indeed, I wanted to remind you I am in this college because your father gave a scholarship, and I suppose that would mean you might be nice to me at least.”

“I’m sure I want to be,” Jane quickly toned down.  “But no girl can make friends with another when she insists on quarreling.  I am willing to pay for the broken mirror—­”

“You don’t need to trouble yourself; if it is to be paid for I’ll do it myself.  My folks wouldn’t let me—­sponge on anybody.”

“Sponge,” repeated Jane, frowning with something like disgust.  “Please don’t use such horrible slang.”

“Oh my!  I suppose a scholarship girl must be a mouse or a kitten.  Well, when I took it I understood no one in Wellington was to know about it and that the scholarship girl had equal rights with every other girl.”

“So she has and no one here does know who wins the scholarship.”  Somehow Jane stumbled over the word.  It was fraught with terror in the hands of this impossible creature.

“Well, I don’t believe it” (no regard for Jane’s veracity), “but I’ll hold on awhile and see.” (Condescending, thought Jane.) “My folks always wanted me to go to college and I just came to satisfy them.  I don’t give a snap for all the high brow stuff and I might as well tell you I am nearly dead with homesickness.” (She didn’t look it, Jane observed.) “But I’m no quitter, so I intend to stick.  Now let’s get back to the girl who hit me.  Can you make her apologize?”