Chapter XIII

Miss Vidella frightened herself more than her pupil when she announced that she would write to Mr. Tenter Bruno. The whole school had heard her say she would do a thing which she particularly did not want to do. The Bruno girl had still, presumably, another year to spend at her school and to bring in good fees, and it would be unwise to give her father the impression that she was getting too big and obstreperous for the place. There must be no quarrel with Mr. Bruno, for she wanted his name as a reference. Besides, she was thoroughly afraid of his brilliant modern mind. And somewhere behind her indignation peeped the thought that the offence was not really as bad as her posing required her to treat it. After a tea-time spent in deliberation she decided that discretion must masquerade as mercy. She climbed the stair to the little single bedroom which Daphne, as one of the elder girls, now enjoyed. She was primed with words of austere forgiveness, but when she saw that the criminal was lolling on the bed and reading a book, anger made her command:

"Get off that bed at once."

Daphne got off slowly.

"Now put it straight."

Daphne did so.

"You are, indeed, Daphne, a difficult child. I came upstairs disposed to limit my chastisement of you to words of kindness and advice, and I find you apparently insensible to the gravity of your offence. I intended to say that I would not hurt your dear father by a report of your behaviour, but----"

"I don't mind if you write to him or not."

This was dreadful. The girl was pushing her into the stream of events she desired to escape.

"You don't care? Have you no affection for him?"

"Yes, heaps; but I don't think he'll die of anything you can tell him."

"Are you being impudent, Daphne?"

"I don't know."

"I do."

"Then why do you ask?"

Miss Vidella stared at her, flounced to the door, and said: "I shall most certainly write to your father. I shall do it this moment," and thus made her exit. Yes, she would write that letter at once. Its phrasing shaped in her mind. Like all weak people she was easily made apprehensive lest some one was questioning her strength. A strong gesture was pleasing. Now that her hand had been forced she was proud that she was going to write to Mr. Bruno. The school should know that she had written to Mr. Bruno, and realise that when she said she'd do a thing she did it.

One person was thrilled by the news of Daphne Bruno's disgrace and confinement. Miss Sims, always curiously exultant when her favourite was punished, saw herself coming to her in prison with sympathy and undiminished faith. Her heart beat quickly as she approached the bedroom where Daphne was isolated. Opening the door with a "May I come in?" she saw the girl sitting on the bed with one heel beneath her, writing something. This was disappointing. Miss Sims had encouraged the idea that she would be crying. "She's been made hard and callous," thought Miss Sims. "She will be better softened. Gentleness will soften her."

"Hallo," said Daphne, looking up. She folded over the letter she had been writing.

"Duffy dear. What has been happening? I could not bear to think of you up here."

"Oh, Miss Vidella has been doing a little acting. She thinks she's being very fine and strong. I'm enjoying myself immensely."

A pity she adopted this defiant attitude. Miss Sims liked to minister to soft and broken things. And the Character never listened to disloyalty.

"Hush, dear. You know I never listen to rebellious muttering." ... She sat down beside the girl. "Why did you utter such a word? After all, you are a girl who will always exercise a great influence over those younger than yourself, and you have them to consider."

Daphne looked away, and Miss Sims knew that this veiled flattery was the way to conquer her. She spent a very happy few minutes, giving counsel to the girl, with her heart going out to her as she did so; she pointed out how much it behoved one who was plainly a nature of strong passions to learn control in small things, and she saw that Daphne liked being called a nature of strong passions, and was thinking of Miss Sims as the one person who understood her.

"I know, Miss Sims. But why couldn't Miss Vidella talk to me properly--like you do--instead of making an Aunt Sally of me before half the school. She said I was difficult to influence. I am not, am I? You know."

It was a sweet moment for Miss Sims.

"I have never found you so, dear."

"Of course not, because you're always so understanding. But she always tries to humiliate me before the whole school, and now she declares she's going to write a lot of lies to father."

"Hush, dear. I think she may be unduly severe, but I can see her point of view."

"She hasn't got a point of view, except the one that goes with her part. I'm writing to father too.... Oh, Miss Sims, would you--would you post it for me?"

Miss Sims smiled tolerantly, but really the request gave her much pleasure. It was picturesque, this taking of a missive from an offender in prison.

"I will certainly, dear. There can be no harm in your father hearing what you have to say."

"Oh, that's topping of you."

Daphne added something to her letter, and folded it up and give it to Miss Sims.

"Thank you, dear," said the governess. "And if there is anything else you need, or I can do for you--bring you books or anything----" Her guilty ear detected a step on the landing outside, and she rose. It was not done hastily, for her desire to impress Daphne with her serenity and fearlessness was stronger than her fear of being caught by Miss Vidella. But her heart, which fortunately could not be seen, was beating faster.

"I will take it for you now. Good-bye for the time being, dear."

She stooped and kissed her favourite.

The next morning over his breakfast Mr. Bruno read of Miss Vidella's pain at being obliged to report that she had had occasion to deal severely with his daughter, and of her desire that he also would write a word of reproof. Daphne had employed on the hockey field language which could not be set on paper, and Miss Vidella wrote in the sure knowledge that her father's rebuke would carry very great weight with dear Daphne, and that, since this outbreak suggested that she had met with unsuitable companions in her vacations, he would doubtless wish to be informed of the matter.

"Gracious goodness!" smiled Mr. Bruno, at the ponderous and lumbering phrases. "What on earth can the depraved child have said?"

And all the contraband language that he could think of seemed beautifully funny as passing from one of her pupils to Miss Vidella.

Then he picked up an envelope written in the schoolgirl hand of his daughter.

"Ah, now perhaps we shall know. Duffy will doubtless strengthen herself to write the obscene word."

His butter-knife sliced the flap, and he read:

"DARLING FATHER,--Miss Vidella says she is going to write to you about the crimes of your daughter. I don't know if the old pig really meant it, but in case she does I thought I'd get in first. Her only accusation is that I have used slang and one swear word. I don't think the slang business will upset you much because you say in 'The Decay of Romanticism' that slang is often the natural, urgent poetry of a vital people." ("Good heavens!" thought Mr. Bruno, "she must have copied the sentence straight out of the book.") "And you give examples that you say are Shakespearean in their aptness, energy and high compression, and you say further on that those who use slang brilliantly are often more vivacious and dynamic minds than those who stagnate in a mould of stilted phraseology like Miss Vidella. I quite agree with you, as I do with most of what you have written. And I am not saying this just because I want you to side with me, but because I really do. Old Petsy could no more think of that about slang than she could fly. That is really rather witty about her flying, as you would understand if you could see her. But the swear word will probably not please you so well. What happened was this. I felt that Miss Vidella was reactionary in her ban on hockey, and that it was time Hemans House advanced a little, so as to be abreast of modern ideas, and I accordingly led a successful agitation for reform in the matter. That, of course, stuck in her gizzard, and I'm sure she came on to the hockey field determined to spoil the game. What I blame myself for is not swearing so much"--(Mr. Bruno read this sentence again before murmuring: "Duffy, Duffy, you're getting dangerously ambiguous")--"as giving the old cat an opening. Annie Hurst, silly little ass, caught me an awful whack on the shin, and before I knew what had happened, I said 'O damn!' which you often say when the soup-plate is hot. That was all, and it's really painful, a whack on the shin-bone with a hockey stick, and I've got a huge bruise and what looks like a little dent in the bone. That side of it doesn't seem to have struck Miss Vidella.

"Daddy, I have got a suggestion. If you think it wise to come down and rebuke me, couldn't we do it at a tea-shop and have a jolly afternoon together?

"Daddy, I'm reading 'Park and Pavement,' and I like it awfully. It's your best book, I think, in my humble opinion. But then I think that of each one as I read it. I'm in disgrace in my bedroom, and enjoying myself awfully. It's been fun writing to you.--Yours awfully,

"DUFFY."

"P.S.--I have been wondering how I was going to post this, but an awfully decent mistress is going to post it for me.--D. D. T. B."

The effect of Daphne's letter on her father was similar to that which she unconsciously used to work when she burst uninvited into his gaze. There was an immediate quickening of his love, a flavour of self-reproach that he passed so much time away from her, and, as he pictured her sitting on her bed and writing to him, a stirring of the heart that was almost painful.

"Oh, damn! That prehistoric old fool shan't persecute her. She shall swear if she likes. That is to say, she shall do nothing of the sort, for it would spoil her charm. But she's my daughter, and beginning to stand, I fancy, in much the same relation to that slow-going vehicle, her school, as I do to society to-day. I like to think it. With all her ignorance and immaturity she's too dynamic for her surroundings. I must write, I suppose. No, damn it, I'll go and see her, and the absurd place as well. If it's as I imagine, we must do something better for her."

It was impossible for him to be other than courteous, and he wrote to Miss Vidella thanking her for her thoughtfulness, telling her that he would like to come and see her the next afternoon and requesting her to be so good as to inform Daphne of his intentions. His kindest regards concluded the letter.

Miss Vidella was delighted. Her strong action was justified. Evidently Mr. Tenter Bruno, since he was coming in person, shared her distress and approved her discretion. She began to phrase the high commendation he would give when sought as a reference for Hemans House. "I shall ever be grateful for Miss Vidella's watchful care of my own daughter." And after prayers that mornings she announced to the assembled school:

"I have just received a letter from Mr. Tenter Bruno, who will visit the school this afternoon." She left that to sink in. The children would instantly guess why he was coming, and be impressed with the seriousness of a recent incident and the strong hand of their principal. "And, girls, I hope he will come and see you at your work. Mr. Tenter Bruno, as you all know, is a writer with an international reputation, and you will like to remember that he visited you at your school. It will also interest your parents."

Mr. Bruno arrived about three o'clock; and after an interview in the reception room which was chiefly used by Miss Vidella to explain how fond she was of dear Daphne and hoped to make a great success of her, and by Mr. Bruno in mental generalizations suggested by such a type as this head mistress, he was left alone in a saddle-bag chair to await his daughter. She burst in, most obviously dressed to receive him. And because she was tall, and he unused to such an interview, he rose like an embarrassed guest to greet her. After the fat, black, pompous figure of the head mistress, she came with something like a shock of contrast; he saw the roundness of her head under its brown hair newly brushed, the freshness of her eyes and cheeks, the smallness of her neck, and the fast-refining outline of her body and her limbs. The critic in him, as well as the father, approved it all. Wonderful how she could move him sometimes! In the chamber of his anti-sentimental brain, moving without guilt among the censors there, was the thought: "You are mine ... you came from me ... Daphne."

"Hallo, Daddy!"

She rose on her toes to kiss him, and he gave her waist a hug.

"So you've been using the language of the tap-room to that strange old woman."

"I haven't," denied Daphne, "I told you exactly what I said."

"Good heavens, miss! And wasn't that outrageous in a slender girl?"

"No, not considering the hefty blow I got on my leg. I often say 'Oh, damn!' to myself, as I'm sure everybody does, and that time it came out aloud. And with good reason, too. Just look here." And she made as if to remove her stocking.

"No, no, no. Don't show me anything unpleasant. Besides, you've got it all wrong, Duffy. The idea of the strange old lady isn't so much that you should show me some trifling bruise on your shin, as that I should talk to you about the really serious bruise on my heart. That a daughter of mine should say--such words! You mustn't, Duffy; for you're in danger of becoming a--a beautiful creature, and it's out of harmony for one of that pattern to use squalid words. The whole product is not homogeneous. It's bad art."

"Well," said his daughter. "That's the most sensible way I've ever heard it put."

"Yes, and----However.... How old are you, Duffy?"

"Seventeen for all practical purposes."

"Well, I have a practical purpose. Let us sit down and talk it over. Are you allowed to sit in this room?"

They seated themselves, and he told her of a scheme that he had been pondering in the train. And because it was one that he knew she would love, he could only approach it through a cloud of raillery. Publicity, he said, was a very subtle question, and if in the past he had been seen in public with so ordinary a daughter as she, the sale of his books would doubtless have suffered. But now she had changed, and every year she would become of greater and greater publicity value. He felt he would like to have her with him as much as possible. He didn't believe this droll school had anything more to give her, and she could probably do much better, since the taste for less frivolous reading seemed to have come, enjoying the free run of his library and having some music lessons at home. Not that there would be much time for that, because he had long wanted to spend a year in Paris, and proposed taking her there next year. In Paris he would put her on her honour to study the French language and squeeze all the knowledge that was to be squeezed out of picture galleries, historic buildings, the _Opéra_ and the _Comédie Française_. In the summer they would wander in Switzerland and down into Italy, and as the weather cooled make tracks for Rome.

"Daddy!" interrupted Daphne. "Oh, do you mean it? Lord, I'm glad I swore. What an awful suck for Petsy!"

He smiled as he watched her enthusiasm.

"But mark you, the first time you swear, you'll be sent back to Windsor, and doubtless to your bedroom there."

"And may I go home with you to-day?"

"Don't be so heady, my dear. Or I shall decide that you are still very immature, and leave you to your pothooks for another year. You can finish at the end of this term."

"Oh, well, I can stick that out.... Daddy, how glorious!"

She jumped up and kissed him in gratitude.

"But you must promise to stay with me a little while," stipulated he, "and not marry the first lout that comes lopping up the drive. Say a couple of years at least.... Yes, and now come and be reprimanded at this pastry shop."

"Oh, but first you've got to go round and see the girls at their lessons. I think Miss Vidella wants to show you off, but whether she wants to or not, I do."

"Oh d----. Yes, I was about to use your favourite oath. Yes, the singular old woman did mention something of the sort. But is it really necessary?"

"Absolutely. Several of the elder girls are reading your books, and, though they don't understand them as well as I do, they are anxious to see what you look like. Besides, I want them to see that you are not angry or anything, and that Miss Vidella's sneaking has hopelessly failed."

They passed into the passage. And the opening of their door was the signal for another to open and emit the head mistress. Mr. Bruno felt his daughter immediately take hold of his arm.

"Oh, before you go," said the head mistress, "you promised to visit my dear girls. They will appreciate a visit from you so much."

"Well, so long as I'm not expected to address them," he began.

"Oh, no, certainly not," assured Miss Vidella.... "Daphne dear, you had better go to your class-room."

Mr. Bruno felt the hold on his arm tightened.

"But father's taking me out to tea."

It was a moment of strain. Clearly the head mistress was at a loss what to say, though the words behind her eyes said: "I think such a reward to the child most unsuitable." Mr. Bruno hastened to ease the atmosphere by turning to his daughter with a reproof: "If Miss Vidella is kind enough to consent, you mean." ... And then to Miss Vidella, with the request: "Having come so far, I trust you will allow me to keep her for the afternoon."

The head mistress bowed austerely, and led the way to the schoolrooms, while Daphne whispered:

"Tell her I'm leaving at the end of the term, do."

"My dear, I couldn't possibly tell her to her face. I never could say anything that was the least unpleasant. I'll write it to her."

"Oh, stuff! She's much more afraid of you than you are of her."

"It's impossible."

All the voyage through the class-rooms she was hanging ostentatiously on his arm.

The first hour of their companionship in the town was very happy, but then supervened a thing that worried and saddened him; his daughter's prattle over the tea-cups palled, and he became a-fidget to get home to his books. Hardly hearing what she said, he began to deplore his intolerance of immature minds that had no ideas or stimulations to give him--whether they were adult minds or children's. Love ought to enable him to come out of himself and listen. But he had lost the power. Only with intellects of his own order, or with books, could he establish correspondence.... Still, she would improve, and be his most valuable companion one day.

He looked at his watch and began to discuss his train.

All that evening and the next day Daphne was covertly bragging: "Father's taking me away.... I'm to travel with him instead of coming back to school. We're going to Paris for a year, and then to Switzerland and Italy and Rome.... I shall probably keep house for him." To her more intimate friends she added: "You must come and stay with us sometimes." The news, told in confidence to the girls, created interest, but no dismay--she was not popular enough for that.

Each day she scanned Miss Vidella's face for some evidence that her father's letter had come. And when a whole week had passed with no trace of a nasty shock behind the steel spectacles, a dread seized her lest his glorious plan, now that she was remote, had been shelved. In suspense she wrote to inquire if he had sent his letter, and, if not, to urge him to do so. "Daddy darling, Have you written about that business? If you haven't, I don't think you should delay. Oh, I do want to do all you said, and travel with you...."

His reply was a confession that, owing to pressure of work, he had neglected to write. "But I've just written the letter, and it will be posted with this one. Sorry you've been worrying, but it was my fault. _Peccavi, peccavi, peccavissimi_, as the monk said whose penitence was in excess of his Latin."

Then Miss Vidella had taken the knock this very morning. Daphne studied her to see how she looked after it. There was no visible difference in her. And the morning and the evening passed. None of her words or looks could be twisted into evidence that she knew Daphne Bruno was leaving. This was Wednesday. Thursday provided no sign. Friday was equally barren, and by the evening of that day Daphne was in despair, tears very close to her eyes. "Oh, he said he had written and posted it. He said he posted it on Tuesday night. He can't have done it. I _won't_ come back next term. I couldn't, now I've once heard I wasn't going to. If I have to come back next term I shall do something desperate."

But on Saturday morning her impatient eyes did detect a new haughtiness in the carriage of the head mistress when the black figure swept past her. And after breakfast her waking hopes were confirmed by Miss Vidella's request: "Daphne, I wish you would accompany me to the reception-room. I desire to speak to you."

Oh, this meant everything. She felt exhilarated, triumphant, free, as she walked behind Miss Vidella. The moment compensated her for the many times she had walked there in disgrace. The little, stout, waddling black figure led the way into the room, and, sitting down, put on spectacles, and took a letter from the writing-table.

"I am surprised, very much surprised, to receive this morning a letter from your father saying that he proposes taking you away at the end of the term."

She looked up from the letter at her pupil who answered with a sentence she had been longing to use.

"Yes, he told me he was going to the other day when he was down here."

"Oh, indeed?" Miss Vidella's eyebrows went up and hovered a second over the top of her spectacles. "A most unusual proceeding altogether, I think.... Er, did you ask him to do this thing?"

"No, he suggested it first."

"And why? Is he dissatisfied with the school in any way? It would be strange if he were, after being content with it for nearly five years."

"I don't think he ever thought much about it," suggested Daphne as a solution.

"And what precisely do you desire to convey by that?"

Daphne shrugged her shoulders.

"Is he dissatisfied--now that he has troubled to think about it?"

She shrugged again. It was so difficult to be outspokenly rude and say: "Of course he is," and she couldn't think of any innuendo that would express the same idea.

"Answer me, please. I am anxious to know if you have--if this school has suffered from any misrepresentation."

"I think he wants me to travel with him. To Paris and Switzerland and Rome."

"Dear, dear," protested Miss Vidella. "I always find you dear girls think I am a fool. Such is surely an obvious excuse. One doesn't decide to go travelling to Paris and Switzerland and Rome during an afternoon's visit, thus foregoing a term's fees. Why do you prevaricate, Daphne? Speak the truth."

"Well, I think he does think the school is old-fashioned and that I'm not doing much good."

"Excellent! Excellent!" nodded Miss Vidella, getting off her seat. "Well, now we know. Yes, from my humble and obsolete standpoint, he is right on both scores. It is an old fashion to object with all the strength one can command to the use of foul oaths by one's girls--and as you have never shown any affection or loyalty to your school it cannot be said that you are doing much good."

"I suppose not."

The rebellious note caused the mistress to stare at her. In the pause Daphne knew what Miss Vidella was thinking: that, since there was now no possibility of keeping the Bruno girl, she could afford to be very strong.

"H'm, I think I see." She nodded meaningly. "I begin to see. Yes, of course. Your dear father thought that your position here, after having so disgraced yourself, would be uncomfortable in the extreme. Your surroundings would always fill you with shame, and your school-fellows would to a certain extent reprobate you."

"I don't think they're very concerned about it," fired Daphne, "and if they were, it wouldn't worry me."

Miss Vidella paid no heed.

"And yes, I see. Your dear father conceived that, after much thought, I should feel I could not in the interest of my dear girls keep you here, so he has written _first_ to suggest your removal, and thus saved me the painful duty of asking him to take you away."

The blood poured over Daphne's face. She loathed her head mistress, and seeing through her weakness to its dregs, cared not what she said.

"You know he doesn't think anything like that. You know you've only just this moment thought of that. You know you really want me to stay so that you won't lose a year of my father's fees. And--and you don't really think it's frightfully serious if some one says 'damn'; but that it's enormously fetching to pretend that you do. I dare say you say it to yourself sometimes. You know you're awfully sick at the idea of my going, and it's only when you've realised that there's no ghostly chance of my stopping that you think you had best appear frightfully strong and get the credit of having expelled me. And if that--and if you give out that that was the reason of my going, I shall get my father to write to the papers about this school and ruin you. They'll any of them publish anything he writes, and only too glad...."

Miss Vidella had walked to the bell-push, very likely with some idea that a maid could remove Daphne like a tea-tray. But Daphne didn't stay. Trembling with fear at what she had said and with pleasure in it--a heat tingling her cheek-bones, and her heart thumping--she hurried out, ready to justify herself to the world.

Miss Vidella was trembling too, and her heart going irregularly. Never before--not like that--good heavens, no!--the girl was mad, dangerous--such a thing was unbelievable--not in all the years--she should go--go at once--people should see--it made one feel quite sick and faint. What the girl wanted was to be locked up and thrashed. Thrashed!

The maid knocked, entered, and was pettishly dismissed.

Miss Vidella, recovering, tried to think collectedly. Mr. Tenter Bruno's reference being irrevocably lost, there was but one enjoyment left--that of being strong. She would write at once and demand that he remove his daughter. No relief could come to her till the words were in ink--till the letter was posted. With a shaking hand she took note-paper and pen. "I regret--I regret to have to inform you that your daughter has again been intolerably insolent, and, as I am quite unaccustomed to this sort of treatment, I should--I should esteem It a favour if you would allow her to return to her home at once. Yours truly...."

That any one should write in that tone to _him_ incensed Mr. Bruno. "Hell take the woman," he began, and reached for the bell with a view to dispatching a servant and a wire. But he stopped as he saw a letter in his daughter's hand. "Poor kid," thought he. Impatiently opening it, he read her story of the head mistress's "nasty suggestion," and her urgent request that he would write to her some words which she could show to her friends as proof that she had not been expelled.

"Poor darling! I won't have her worried like a rabbit by that fat little poodle-bitch. Thank goodness, I can easily supply her need."

And the following morning Daphne fled with his letter, still sealed, to a deserted room, and there opened it in suspense.

"MY DEAREST DAPHNE." (She guessed that he had avoided her nickname lest she were ashamed to show it to her school-fellows.)

"I think that on the whole the sooner I have you back with me the better, so that we may prepare for our travels. I wrote a few days ago to Miss Vidella, telling her that you would not return after next term--it was last Tuesday I wrote, as I think I told you in a contemporary letter--and she wrote in reply begging me to reconsider my decision and not to deprive you of your last year at Hemans House, which she said was the most important of all. But I could not agree, and wrote to that effect. I fear from a letter I received to-day that she is unreasonably annoyed at my refusal to let you stay, though it was quite within my rights; so lest she should vent her displeasure on you, I have written asking that you may return to-morrow.

"No more at present, for I am very busy.

"Your loving
"FATHER."

"Oh, he's a dear!" exclaimed she. "How wonderfully he's phrased it! He _is_ clever!"

She could hardly believe she was to go at once. Excitement jumped her up and led her to the window. As was fitting, the room to which she had fled looked out upon the drive and the exit gates in the garden wall. The wall appeared grey and green, and the sunlight glorious beyond. It was too wonderful to be true. Suddenly had come to her very feet that free country, wide and pleasurable, which ten days ago she had hazily thought of as many troublesome miles ahead. The goal of the long march of childhood had not waited for her to reach it, but had come to meet her. And it shone everywhere with promises: long, indolent reading; hours when one dreamed out books (the hours best worth living); travels with her father in places whose names were romances--Paris, Switzerland, Italy, Rome--Rome! Sooner or later there would be love. Some one in Paris, perhaps, or in Rome. Among the imperial ruins, as her imagination created them, she saw his figure moving--featureless (for one could not decide on his features) and of vague form (for was he tall or broad or slender?)--just the grey figure of a youth. Now she was in his arms, and the thought of it gave her that emptying delight that had accompanied thoughts of Roger's love. And fame. Fame was in the distance. It was all incredible. This morning, before breakfast, a schoolgirl. To-morrow, about ten o'clock, after running down those hearthstone steps and bowling in a carriage through those gates, a free, independent, pleasure-seeking, fame-seeking woman of the world!

To only one person was the news of Daphne's departure a stunning blow--Miss Sims. To her it came like an unexpected death sentence.

She had not cared to think what would happen when Daphne passed out of her life; sufficient that the dread hour was a year or more away. But ten days ago, without warning, she had been told that it was only eight weeks away. And Daphne's excitement and enthusiasm had pained her cruelly. As she listened to the girl's gaiety she had resolved to suffer without complaint. That self-pity at least she could enjoy. She took her pain away to her bedroom, with its tin wash-hand-stand and its hospital bed. There she dwelt upon it. "Never to see you again. Never to feel that I am moulding you to a noble shape." Well, perhaps it was better thus. It was better that the beloved girl should pass out of her life before she discovered her governess to be something much smaller and less wonderful than she had thought. And there was still eight weeks more to enjoy her.

And now they told her that Daphne Bruno was going to-morrow morning. Daphne going to-morrow? And as there had been trouble between her people and the head mistress, impossible that she should ever come near the school again! The blow left an ache and confusion that Miss Sims hid all day behind her teaching and her smiles and her small-talk with the girls. Something of the serenity that she had acted before Daphne struggled now to be real, and it did give itself birth.

The next morning, when the carriage came up the drive, she purposely waited in a little narrow music-room that she might torture herself, did Daphne go off without seeking her; or might have her alone, did the girl come.

Daphne burst in, saying she had been looking for her everywhere.

"Good-bye, dear," said Miss Sims.

"Good-bye, Miss Sims. I don't know how to thank you for all your kindness."

_Kindness!_ The commonplace word wounded the governess.

"Good-bye, dear. And God bless you--always."

Daphne hesitated, and then stuttered:

"I wanted to say I owe everything to you. That's the absolute truth. You've been the best thing about my school life. I mean--oh, but I think I'll try and write it to you."

"Good-bye, Duffy. The memory of you will always be sweet to me."

She had resolved to say that much to her and no more. A little more was conveyed in the pressure of her hand and the kiss she placed on the girl's forehead. Then Daphne had gone, and Miss Sims's hand had fallen to her side. She stayed in the music-room till she heard the carriage wheels crunch over the gravel on to the road. She was racked by the half-knowledge that, despite Daphne's words, no passionate love or throbbing pain could be read in her leave-taking. "Thank you for all your kindness." Cruel mediocrity! "But she will write the broken-hearted words she could not say." No. It was all over. A few dwindling letters would come, and they would be no more than echoes.

She walked out of the narrow music-room into the dark main passage of the ground floor. Five doors opened on to it, and a staircase came down from the bedrooms above. It was, so to think, the centre of Hemans House. One could hear the murmurous class-rooms, and the halting scales from another music-room, and the buried clatter in the kitchen. The head mistress passed from the reception-room, where she had been taking some sort of farewell of Daphne, to her teaching in the Fifth Form room. Her voice started, high-pitched and whining.

It was Hemans House, monotonously there, with Miss Sims in its centre. She had a curious, rather unpleasant thought: for ever and ever in Daphne's mind Hemans House would have nothing but a subjective, dreamlike existence, and then only when she willed to create it in memory. And yet here it was. Almost one could think of it, and herself moving in it, as something in an occasional dream of Daphne's.