"Give out the history readers," she said to the monitors.

There was dead silence. As she stood there, she could hear

again the ticking of the clock, and the chock of piles of books

taken out of the low cupboard. Then came the faint flap of books

on the desks. The children passed in silence, their hands

working in unison. They were no longer a pack, but each one

separated into a silent, closed thing.

"Take page 125, and read that chapter," said Ursula.

There was a click of many books opened. The children found

the page, and bent their heads obediently to read. And they

read, mechanically.

Ursula, who was trembling violently, went and sat in her high

chair. The blubbering of the boy continued. The strident voice

of Mr. Brunt, the roar of Mr. Harby, came muffled through the

glass partition. And now and then a pair of eyes rose from the

reading-book, rested on her a moment, watchful, as if

calculating impersonally, then sank again.

She sat still without moving, her eyes watching the class,

unseeing. She was quite still, and weak. She felt that she could

not raise her hand from the desk. If she sat there for ever, she

felt she could not move again, nor utter a command. It was a

quarter-past four. She almost dreaded the closing of the school,

when she would be alone.

The class began to recover its ease, the tension relaxed.

Williams was still crying. Mr. Brunt was giving orders for the

closing of the lesson. Ursula got down.

"Take your place, Williams," she said.

He dragged his feet across the room, wiping his face on his

sleeve. As he sat down, he glanced at her furtively, his eyes

still redder. Now he looked like some beaten rat.

At last the children were gone. Mr. Harby trod by heavily,

without looking her way, or speaking. Mr. Brunt hesitated as she

was locking her cupboard.

"If you settle Clarke and Letts in the same way, Miss

Brangwen, you'll be all right," he said, his blue eyes glancing

down in a strange fellowship, his long nose pointing at her.

"Shall I?" she laughed nervously. She did not want anybody to

talk to her.

As she went along the street, clattering on the granite

pavement, she was aware of boys dodging behind her. Something

struck her hand that was carrying her bag, bruising her. As it

rolled away she saw that it was a potato. Her hand was hurt, but

she gave no sign. Soon she would take the tram.

She was afraid, and strange. It was to her quite strange and

ugly, like some dream where she was degraded. She would have

died rather than admit it to anybody. She could not look at her

swollen hand. Something had broken in her; she had passed a

crisis. Williams was beaten, but at a cost.




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