Maudie Heywood, blushing like a lobster, stepped forward and thrust three limp fingers for a fraction of a second into the Professor’s large clasp, then thankfully merged her identity among her schoolfellows. Cynthia, who was behind her, smiled bewitchingly upwards into the florid, benevolent face of her new instructor, then, falling gracefully upon one knee, seized his hand and touched it with her lips.
The sensation in the room was immense. The Professor, looking decidedly astonished and embarrassed, hastily withdrew his hand from the affectionate salutation. Miss Beasley’s eyes were round with horror.
“Cynthia!” she exclaimed, and the tone of her voice alone was sufficient reproof.
The luckless Cynthia, instantly conscious that her act had been misconstrued, retired with less grace than she had come forward, and spent most of the lecture in surreptitiously mopping her eyes. As she walked dejectedly down the corridor afterwards, she was accosted by Hermione Graveson, a member of the Sixth.
“Look here!” said Hermione briefly. “What prompted you to make such an utter exhibition of yourself just now? I never saw anything more sickening in my life!”
Cynthia’s tears burst forth afresh. 31
“It wasn’t my fault,” she sobbed. “I didn’t want to do it, but I was told it was school etiquette and I must.”
“Who told you such rubbish?”
“That girl with the dark eyes and a patriotic hair ribbon.”
“Raymonde Armitage?”