1
THE schoolroom at Leaside was dreary. You came through the front door
into a narrow passage covered with brown linoleum and decorated with
trophies from Indian bazaars. On one side stood a black carved wood
table bearing a Benares tray used for visiting cards, beside the table
stood an elephant's foot, adapted to take umbrellas. To your right was
the drawing-room, to your left the dining-room, facing you were the
stairs carpeted in faded green Brussels. If you continued down the
passage and passed the kitchen door, you came to the schoolroom. Leaside
was a sunny house, so that the schoolroom took you by surprise; it was
an unpleasant room, always a little damp, as the walls testified.
It was spring and the gloom of the room was somewhat dispelled by the
bright bunch of daffodils which Elizabeth had brought with her for the
table. At this table she sat with her two pupils; there was silence
except for the scratching of pens. Elizabeth Rodney leant back in her
chair; what light there was from the window slanted on to her strong
brown hair that waved persistently around her ears. Her eyes looked
inattentive, or rather as if their attention were riveted on something a
long way away; her fine, long hands were idly folded in her lap; she had
a trick of folding her hands in her lap. She was so neat that it made
you uncomfortable, so spotless that it made you feel dirty, yet there
was something in the set of her calm mouth that made you doubtful. Calm
it certainly was, and yet ... one could not help wondering....
Just now she looked discouraged; she sighed.
"Finished!" said Joan, passing over her copy-book. Elizabeth examined
it. "That's all right."
Milly toiled, the pen blotted, tears filled her eyes, one fell and made
the blot run.
"Four and ten and fifteen and seven, that makes----"
"Thirty-six," said Elizabeth. "Now we'll go out."
They got up and put away the books. Outside, the March wind blew
briskly, the sea glared so that it hurt your eyes, and around the coast
the white cliffs curved low and distinct.
"Let's go up there," said Elizabeth, pointing to the cliffs.
"Joan, Joan!" called Mrs. Ogden from the drawing-room window, "where is
your hat?"
"Oh, not to-day, Mother. I like the feel of the wind in my hair."
"Nonsense, come in and get your hat."
Joan sighed. "I suppose I must," she said. "You two go on, I'll catch
you up." She ran in and snatched a tam-o'-shanter from the hall table.
"Don't forget my knitting wool, dear."
"No, Mother, but we were going on to the downs."
"The downs to-day? Why, you'll be blown away!"
"Oh, no, Miss Rodney and I love wind."
"Well, as you come home, then."
"All right. Good-bye, Mother."
"Good-bye, darling."
2
Joan ran after the retreating figures. "Here I am," she said
breathlessly. "Is it Cone Head or the Golf Course?"
"Cone Head to-day," replied Elizabeth.
There was something in her voice that attracted Joan's attention, a
decision, a kind of defiance that seemed out of place. It was as if she
had said: "I _will_ go to Cone Head, I want to get out of this beastly
place, to get up above it and forget it." Joan eyed her curiously. To
Milly she was just the governess who gave you sums and always, except
when in such a mood as to-day, saw that you did them; but to Joan she
was a human being. To Milly she was "Miss Rodney," to Joan, privately at
all events, "Elizabeth." They walked on in silence.