"Are you asleep? It's the lists. Your exam. You'll be second, I expect."
But Marion was second.
The clapping crackled up anew.
So the news was come!
It was cruel to let it spring upon you thus.... You would have asked so little ... ten minutes ... a bare ... in which to brace yourself.... Surprise was horrible ... it caught you with your soul half-naked ... it shocked like sudden noise....
There came a fresh outburst.
It was wicked to make such sounds ... like all the policeman's-rattles in the world....
The reading proceeded; it calmed her; it barely stirred the beautiful silence. But presently the neat voice altered. Old Edith Marsham was a kindly soul. She had not quite forgotten her own schooldays. She realised, perfunctorily, as the successful do, the blankness of defeat. Louise heard her name pronounced, a trifle hurriedly. Louise Denny—failed.
She made no sign. She sat erect, listening to the conclusion of that matter, clapped in due course, stood, kneeled, rose again, as applause, hymns and prayers buzzed about her, filed with her class from the hall and added her shy word to the clamour of congratulation in the long corridors. Inwardly, she was stunned by the evil that was upon her.
The irregular morning classes (the imminent entertainment had disorganised the entire system of work) gave her time to rouse, to review her position.