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Mary squinted near-sightedly at the black stains. “Jane Drew must have had a quarrel with one of her pictures and thrown an ink bottle at it,” she said. “I wonder how she covered up the tragedy. I never noticed those spots last year.”

“She must have had a very big picture,” said Betty. “My biggest Gibson girl won’t do it. And my desk won’t go into that corner where Jane had hers.”

“Number twenty-seven must have shrunk during the summer,” said Mary. “I hope my palatial apartment hasn’t lost any of its six by ten spaciousness.”

There was a long pause. “Mary,” began Betty at last, “are you tired or are you blue?”

“Blue,” declared Mary savagely, “blue as a heron. (Did we ever find one in the Mary-Bird-Club, Betty?) I wondered if you’d notice it. I hate being a senior. I know it’s going to be perfectly deadly—this seeing the last of things. How do you like being a junior?”

Betty hesitated. “Mary, does it always last,—the fun of college? Did you ever know a girl who’d been very, very fond of it for two years to get tired of it all of a sudden?”