Twenty-one students lunched in Athelstan, the twenty-first of them, the sufferer, being served in her room. Mrs Bradley had given her a bed in the Guest Room, which was on the ground floor between the Servery and the Junior or North Common Room. The Sub-Warden’s sitting-room was directly opposite, and Mrs Bradley felt that no objection would be lodged by Deborah if she herself used it as a bedroom whilst she had the convalescent student under her care. Miss Vincent could stand, and was allowed to walk a little, but even the one flight of stairs from the basement up to the room which had been prepared for her was quite as much as she seemed able to tackle. The Guest Room, too, was larger and more pleasant than a study-bedroom. The convalescent Miss Vincent seemed very pleased with it.
The twenty students, who comprised First-Years, Second-Years, Third-Years and One-Years, made themselves into groups to go out in the car. Sometimes they gave George the route, sometimes he worked out an interesting drive for them. Those who did not go out in the car spent Friday afternoon at the pictures or in walking over the moors. By about half-past six most of them were back in Hall, and some had taken their own gramophone records over to the Demonstration Room — for the College building was open to students until seven — and were dancing in the space cleared of desks.
At seven came dinner. Mrs Bradley, on this first evening, elected to dine in Hall, and had asked the Third-Year and One-Year students from Columba to sit at her table. Judging by the laughter which came from the group throughout the meal, the students enjoyed themselves, and there was slight consternation, followed by general approval, when, with the pudding, a very sweet white wine was brought in by the maids and served in what one excited student diagnosed as ‘real wine-glasses.’
Lights-Out was translated broadly by the Warden-in-Charge during half-term week-ends, but by midnight the house seemed comparatively silent. One or two quiet flittings from room to room were still going on, but noise had ceased and most of the guests were asleep.
Mrs Bradley stayed up until one, occupying herself with Hall accounts, and when she was ready for bed she had a last look at her patient. The girl, a fragile-looking child of nineteen with a long golden plait of very pretty hair, her eyes deeply shadowed, lay asleep, one hand out on the pink counterpane, the other beneath her cheek. The night was chilly, the room unheated except for one small radiator. Mrs Bradley put out a yellow claw and gently placed the arm under the bed-coverings. Beneath that experienced touch the girl did not even stir.
Mrs Bradley went out quietly again, carrying the electric lamp she had brought in with her and crossed the passage into Deborah’s sitting-room. She left the door ajar when she went to bed. In about ten minutes she was asleep.
She slept lightly but soundly until about seven o’clock. She always woke at approximately the same time each morning. She got up immediately, put on her dressing-gown, and went across to look at the convalescent student in the Guest Room. The girl had altered her position, and was now lying on her left instead of on her right side. Her arm was again flung outside the bedclothes. But Mrs Bradley’s black eyes gazed with curious intentness upon the plait of golden hair; for this was no longer attached to the small and delicate head it had once adorned. It lay on the pillow, certainly, but it had been cut off close to the nape of the little white neck, and, somehow, had become thus more a thing of horror than of beauty.
Mrs Bradley stood for about three seconds looking upon this scene of devastation. Then she turned about very sharply, but still silently, and went upstairs to the study-bedroom of the head student.
‘Miss Mathers, dear child,’ she said, waking her. Miss Mathers woke without either surprise or resentment.
‘Oh, good morning, Warden,’ she said. In place of the genial cackle she anticipated, Mrs Bradley said urgently:
‘Who, among these students, is particularly friendly with Miss Vincent, the student who had appendicitis?’
‘Oh — er — Miss Smith, from the same Hall, I think, Warden.’
‘Miss Smith’s number?’
‘Number Three.’
‘Go and rouse her. Tell her to put on her dressing-gown and report to me on the ground floor immediately. Reassure her. I don’t want her descending on me in a state of nerves or peevishness.’
‘I see, Warden.’
‘I’ll tell you all about it later on. Bless you, dear child. Be just as quick as ever you can.’
‘Is Miss Vincent worse, Warden?’
‘No, not worse. Just in need of an affectionate friend.’
‘I understand.’
The admirable girl leapt out of bed, and, pulling her dressing-gown about her as she went, made her way to Miss Smith’s room and roused that somewhat lymphatic student from slumber.
‘Miss Vincent’s taken a funny fit. Nothing serious, the Warden says, but she’s got a bit nervy, or something. Will you tazz down to the ground floor? Quicker the better. It’s nothing much. Don’t worry.’
Miss Smith, a good soul, thrust back counterpane, blankets and sheet, abandoned, without a sigh, the laze in bed she had promised herself that morning (for another student had volunteered to bring up her breakfast) and went down to the ground floor, a trifle flummoxed by the sudden awakening and the summons, but anxious to do what she could.
‘Ah, Miss Smith, my dear,’ said Mrs Bradley, ‘you are fond of Miss Vincent?’
‘Oh, yes, we’re bosoms,’ observed Miss Smith, eagerly extending her chest.
‘Right. Well, now, Miss Smith, I don’t need to tell you that people under the influence of a single, terrifying idea can sometimes contrive to do extraordinary things. Miss Vincent has had in her mind, poor girl, for some time now, the terrifying idea of an operation —
‘Oh, Warden!’ said the dismayed Miss Smith. ‘I shall make a mess of it!’