Laurels Are Poison

truthfully and with alacrity.

Still grave, the chauffeur relieved her of her suitcase, and led her to the car. He opened the door at the back and observed:

‘The young lady, madam, is bound for the College.’ He then assisted her in, closed the door, deposited her suitcase in front, took his seat and drove on.

‘So we meet slightly before Philippi,’ said a rich, remarkable voice, completing the statement with an unnerving cackle of laughter.

‘Oh? Are you going to the College, too? It was awfully silly of me, but I missed the bus,’ said Deborah. Could this be the Principal, she asked herself, terrified at the idea of making her first entry in such dreadful and distinguished company.

‘I am going to the College,’ replied the singular old lady, who, at Deborah’s second glance, proved to be black- eyed, small and incredibly costumed in sage-green, purple and yellow, ‘but whether I shall stay there is another matter entirely. And to which branch of knowledge do you propose that your particular students shall be taught to cling?’ she concluded, grinning at Deborah’s startled and guilty expression.

‘I’m supposed to do a bit of lecturing in English, I believe,’ answered the girl. ‘But I’m really going to help run one of the College Halls.’

‘My talents also appear to show a tendency towards the domestic,’ said the little old woman, with a ferocious leer which gave the impression of assessing these talents at their true worth and then of discarding them. ‘My name is Bradley.’

‘Mine is Cloud — Deborah Cloud.’

So astonishingly different was the speed of the car compared with the progress that she had been able to make on foot that she had time to say no more, for she perceived that they were on the point of arrival at the College. This first intimation that they had reached journey’s end took the form of wide-open double gates giving on to a gravel drive. The legend, in large letters, Cartaret Training College, on a white board, served the double purpose of introduction and reassurance.

‘I think we’re here,’ she observed unnecessarily. Another disquieting cackle was the only reply.

The chauffeur drove in carefully, and drew up in front of a large, modern building flanked, fronted and generally compassed about by lawns, flower-beds, shrubs and green-turfed banks.

‘Delightful,’ said the owner of the car. The chauffeur came round and opened the door.

‘The main College building, madam.’

He handed his employer out, and Deborah followed.

‘George will see to your baggage and find out where to put it,’ said the old lady.

‘Oh, thank you very much, but perhaps I’d better take it,’ said Deborah nervously. ‘And thank you very much for the lift, Miss Bradley. It was awfully kind.’

‘Mrs,’ said the philanthropist; adding, with another hoot of laughter : ‘strange to say.’

‘Mrs Bradley?’ thought Deborah, racking her brain and, at the same time, walking up the first flight of steps she came to in anguished haste to be rid of her uncomfortable benefactor. ‘Where have I…? Goodness gracious me!’

For enlightenment came as she passed in through the open doorway of a dim, wide corridor. She stood still, upon the realization that she had been accepting a lift in the car of one of the most famous of modern women. She breathed deeply, thought — for she was only twenty-six, in spite of a formidable degree and three years’ teaching experience — ‘Something to write home about at last!’ — and then glanced uncertainly at the various doors which flanked and confronted her, whichever way she turned.

Making up her mind, she selected the first door on her left, set down her suitcase, and knocked.

Within there was the clatter of tea-cups and the impatient clacking of a typewriter. Feeling — partly as a result of her encounter with Mrs Bradley — rather like a particularly bewildered Alice, she knocked again, this time a good deal more peremptorily.

‘Come in,’ said a voice, and the clacking of the typewriter ceased as though someone had switched off the wireless. Committing her soul to the angel of the diffident and nervous, she picked up the suitcase, turned the handle of the door, and went in.

‘Deborah Cloud,’ she said. There were four other people in the room. The one behind the typewriter, a dark- haired, horn-rimmed woman of about thirty-five, smiled slightly and flicked over the lists that lay beside her on the desk.

‘Miss Cloud? I don’t remember… Oh !’ She looked up. ‘Miss Cloud! Are you the new Sub-Warden at Athelstan? Miss du Mugne…’ so it was pronounced ‘dew Moon’ Deborah gratefully noted. She had been dreading the first time she would have to use the Principal’s name. One fence crossed, at any rate… ‘will be glad to know you’ve arrived. Do have some tea, won’t you? My name is Rosewell. I’m the College secretary. This is Miss Crossley, the bursar, and this is Mrs Stone, the librarian. Oh, and this is Miss Topas, who came last term to do history.’

Thankfully Deborah abandoned her suitcase, flowers and hat, placed her handbag on the floor beside her chair, and accepted tea and her first introduction to the College.

The librarian, who wore a grey tweed costume and a shirt blouse, was one of those lanky, overgrown, easy- going, ‘helping-hand’ sort of women who are found chiefly in vicarages, Girl Guide camps, mixed schools, some country houses and, as in this case, training colleges.

The bursar was also tall; she was a little older than the secretary, Deborah decided; possibly as old as forty, and might have made a nun; never a Mother Superior, but possibly a Mistress of Discipline. Discipline, in fact, was her strong suit, Deborah concluded, listening to the confident masculine tones and noting the short upper lip and obstinate full chin.

The lecturer in history, Miss Topas, was a fair-haired, round-faced, grey-eyed person rather older than Deborah. (It turned out, later, that she was just thirty.) She had the youthful, triumphant, slightly devilish and ineffably raffish appearance of the extraordinarily gifted. Deborah took to her at sight, and greeted her