There was no sea; only the Maison Dieu Road and the big square house in
the walled garden. Brown wire blinds half way up the schoolroom windows.
An old lady with grey hair and a kind, blunt face, like Jenny; she
unpacked your box in the large, light bedroom, folding and unfolding your
things with little gentle, tender hands. Miss Haynes. She hoped you would
be happy with them, hoped you wouldn't mind sleeping alone the first
night, thought you must be hungry and took you down to tea in the long
dining-room.
More girls, pretending not to look at you; talking politely to Miss
Lambert.
After tea they paired off, glad to see each other. She sat in the corner
of the schoolroom reading the new green Shakespeare that Roddy had given
her. Two girls glanced at her, looked at each other. "Is she doing it for
fun?" "Cheek, more likely."
Night. A strange white bed. Two empty beds, strange and white, in the
large, light room. She wondered what sort of girls would be sleeping
there to-morrow night. A big white curtain: you could draw it across the
room and shut them out.
She lay awake, thinking of her mother, crying now and then; thinking of
Roddy and Dan. Mysterious, measured sounds came through the open window.
That was the sea. She got up and looked out. The deep-walled garden lay
under the window, black and clear like a well. Calais was over there. And
Paris. Mr. Jourdain had written to say he was going to Paris. She had his
letter.
In bed she felt for the sharp edge of the envelope sticking out under the
pillow. She threw back the hot blankets. The wind flowed to her, running
cold like water over the thin sheet.
A light moved across the ceiling. Somebody had waked her. Somebody was
putting the blankets back again, pressing a large, kind hand to her
forehead. Miss Lambert.