Matron was lying in wait at the door of Remove II. B Classroom, and pounced on Joey as she came out at the end of prep explaining that she was to go to bed at once in order that her throat and chest might be rubbed with camphorated oil.

Joey submitted, but unwillingly; bed two hours before anybody else, when she didn't feel ill, only heavy, was a very depressing idea. However, it was clearly no case for argument.

Matron bustled her through her bath and into bed, and was rubbing her with a vigour that left no breath for conversation on her part by the time the other three came in to change their frocks for supper.

Joey wished very heartily that Matron had finished, for she had thought of some new and effective things to say to Syb and Barbara, in answer to their taunts of last night. Noreen was, of course, to be left out; Noreen had really been decent about the bed and everything, even if she had been the ringleader in that ragging business. Joey meant to forgive and forget where Noreen was concerned; but to let Syb and Barbara have it hot and strong. Only she would contrive to let them know that she wouldn't take all the hot water again.

But of course nothing could be said or done while Matron was in the room. She had finished the rubbing now, but was pouring out a portentous dose of ammoniated quinine. On the other side of the room Barbara, Syb, and Noreen were dressing with extraordinary politeness. "Please, Barbara, could you hook me up?" and so on. They were nearly ready; if Matron stayed much longer the supper bell would ring, and the opportunity would be lost.

Joey gulped the ammoniated quinine with a haste that brought tears to her eyes; but still Matron did not go. She was inspecting Joey's garments with a searching eye to see that she was wearing enough of them. Noreen, Barbara, and Syb had reached the hair-ribbon stage before Matron had finished pointing out the need of another vest; and she was still mentioning kindly but firmly that it was generally a girl's own fault if she caught a cold, when the bell rang, and it was too late. Joey could almost have cried.

A maid brought her a strictly invalid supper—a cup of bread and milk and a spongecake. Rather unexciting. Joey made it last as long as possible, but that wasn't very long. Then there was nothing left to do but wait till the rest came to bed.

The advantage of having a window bed was not specially apparent just now, because there was no moon and the fen-world was quite dark. Not even the shadowy outline of the high round tower was to be seen. Joey lay mournfully in bed, and wished for a book. If the girls danced again after supper it would be quite nine o'clock before they came upstairs, and it hadn't struck eight yet. More than a whole long hour to wait, doing nothing. And then, just as she was thinking that, the door of Blue Dorm opened, and Gabrielle put her head in. Joey could see her auburn hair against the light in the passage; the room itself was dark, the maid having turned off the electric light when she took the supper tray.

"Are you sleepy, Jocelyn? Or would you like me to come in and talk?" she asked.

"Oh, do come in—I'm fearfully tired of bed," Joey burst out—"that is, if you don't want to be dancing?"

Gabrielle shut the door, and felt her way over to the one occupied bed.

"I'd rather talk——"

Somebody rushed at the door, turned the handle violently, and dashed in.

"Hullo, Jocelyn, ready for some company?" demanded a cheerful and familiar voice.

Gabrielle switched on the light, and she and Noreen O'Hara looked at one another.

"Oh—you've come to sit with Jocelyn, have you?" Noreen said. "Then I'd better clear out."

"Look here, why shouldn't we both stay?" suggested Gabrielle.

"Don't know why we shouldn't," Noreen agreed. "Mind, Jocelyn?"

"Rather not."

"Only, there's one thing I want to say to you which Gabrielle can't hear—it isn't my secret," Noreen explained hurriedly.

"Shall I get out?" Gabrielle asked.

"No—stick your fingers in your ears a sec, if you don't mind."

Gabrielle obliged.

Noreen plumped down on Joey's bed. "It's this—Syb and Barbara asked me to tell you they're sorry they were such beasts to you last night—and they think you a sport not to have let on to Ingrid."

"Did they say that?" gasped Joey.

"Yes, honest injun!"

"Then I shan't be able to say the utterly hateful things I'd thought of for to-night," Joey murmured regretfully. "But I was a pig about the bath-water, wasn't I?"

"You were," Noreen agreed, with fervour.

"Then that's all right and square. Please tell them I'm sorry I took it all."

"Have you finished?" asked Gabrielle tragically. "It's giving me a pain in both my arms to keep them up so long."

Noreen pulled her arms down. "It's all right. We've only been settling to be friends in this dorm. After all, it is a decent dorm; it was a pity to fight in it."

"It's got the best places for photos of any," Gabrielle said, walking round, and looking at Joey's collection in a very friendly way. "May I take them down and look? I say, what a darling little thing in socks. Is he your brother?"

"Yes—he's Bingo—his proper name is Bevil, but of course we couldn't call him a thing like that, poor kid," Joey explained, quite cheerfully. "He is pretty, isn't he? An artist came along and painted him last year—and he was in the Academy. He did him hugging a German helmet Father brought back—and just in his everyday things, so Bingo was pleased. He was looking up as if someone out of the picture was telling him something he wasn't going to lose a word of. The artist put some Latin under the picture—it meant 'Our fathers have told us.'"

Noreen had been staring open-mouthed all through the narrative.

"But—but—you said that the kid was the gravedigger's youngest," she broke out.

"So I did," Joey agreed calmly.

"And he isn't?"

"Did you suppose all the having on was going to be upon one side?" Joey inquired succinctly. "Besides I thought you'd all like it better that way."

"Then isn't the big one the butcher's boy?"

"No, he's my brother Gavin."

Noreen became rather red. "I say, did you happen to hear what we said—in the train?" she stammered.

"About the village school, and letting down Redlands by my coming?" Joey answered. "Yes, I did. I couldn't help it, you did talk so fearfully loud," she added.

"We didn't mean you to hear," Noreen said miserably.

Joey grinned. "It doesn't matter if I did. I don't care. It was a very jolly village school."

"I'm sure it must have been," Noreen said heartily.

"Look here," interrupted Gabrielle. "What on earth does it matter what sort of school Jocelyn went to? It was pretty poor in Redlanders even to talk as if it mattered."

"It was," owned Noreen, with a meekness that surprised Joey, considering that she was quite half a head taller than Gabrielle.

"But Noreen started being awfully decent to me last night, when she still thought all my photos were—what I said they were," Joey chimed in, in a hurry. "So I don't mind. We went to the village school because Father died in the war, you know, and Mums is frightfully poor; and if the other Redlanders don't like it—well, they needn't! But I'm glad to be friends with Blue Dorm—at least not enemies, you know—that sort of friends."

"I want you to be real friends, Jocelyn—the proper kind, if you'll be it with me as well as Gabrielle," Noreen explained in a hurry. "I wanted to last night."

"All right," said Joey. "I think I'd like to be friends too."

"And we must find a name for you," suggested Gabrielle. "Jocelyn is awfully nice, but the others will think about you as the scholarship kid they ragged, if you stick to it; you want some handy little name—that will make you seem like another girl; and we'll all start fresh."

"They call me 'Joey' at home," Joey answered, after a moment's consideration. She knew there was a great deal in what Gabrielle said about the name—Jocelyn Graham had not made a very popular start.

"Joey—top-hole!" Noreen cried. "You're much more like a boy than a girl; that suits you down to the ground."

And as 'Joey' she was presented to the rather embarrassed Syb and Barbara when they came up to bed, armed with a sticky bag of toffee—in large lumps of which luxury the occupants of Blue Dorm smoked the peace-pipe forthwith.