“I should be very much obliged,” said Priscilla.  “And please tell me now where I ought to sit at dinner.”

Miss Oliphant’s merry eyes twinkled.

“Look down this long hall,” she said.  “Observe that door at the further end—­ that is the students’ door; through that door you ought to have entered.”

“Yes—­ well, well?”

“What an impatient ‘well, well.’  I shall make you quite an enthusiastic Benetite before dinner is over.”

Priscilla blushed.

“I am sorry I spoke too eagerly,” she said.

“Oh, no, not a bit too eagerly.”

“But please tell me where I ought to have seated myself.”

“There is a table near that lower entrance, Miss——­”

“Peel,” interposed Priscilla.  “My name is Priscilla Peel.”

“How quaint and great-grandmotherly.  Quite delicious!  Well, Miss Peel, by that entrance door is a table, a table rather in a draught, and consecrated to the freshers—­ there the freshers humbly partake of nourishment.”

“I see.  Then I am as far from the right place as I can be.”

“About as far as you can be.”

“And that is why all the girls have stared so at me.”

“Yes, of course; but let them stare.  Who minds such a trifle?”

Priscilla sat silent for a few moments.  One of the neat waiting-maids removed her plate; her almost untasted dinner lay upon it.  Miss Oliphant turned to attack some roast mutton with truly British vigor.

By and by Priscilla’s voice, stiff but with a break in it, fell upon her ear.

“I think the students at St. Benet’s must be very cruel.”

“My dear Miss Peel, the honor of the most fascinating college in England is imperiled.  Unsay those words.”

Maggie Oliphant was joking.  Her voice was gay with badinage, her eyes brimful of laughter.  But Priscilla, unaccustomed to light repartee or chaff in any form, replied to her with heavy and pained seriousness.

“I think the students here are cruel,” she repeated.  “How can a stranger know which is the dons’ entrance and which is the right seat to take at table?  If nobody shows her, how can a stranger know?  I do think the students are cruel, and I am sorry—­ very sorry I came.”

CHAPTER III

 An unwilling at home

Most of the girls who sat at those dinner-tables had fringed or tousled or curled locks.  Priscilla’s were brushed simply away from her broad forehead.  After saying her last words, she bent her head low over her plate and longed even for the protection of a fringe to hide her burning blushes.  Her momentary courage had evaporated; she was shocked at having betrayed herself to a stranger; her brief fit of passion left her stiffer and shyer than ever.  Blinding tears rushed to Priscilla’s eyes, and her terror was that they would drop on to her plate.  Suppose some of those horrid girls saw her crying?  Hateful thought.  She would rather die than show emotion before them.