“Not yet,” replied Mr. Brunt, laconic.
“I wonder if my dish is hot,” she said, bending down at the oven. She half expected him to look for her, but he took no notice. She was hungry and she poked her finger eagerly in the pot to see if her brussels sprouts and potatoes and meat were ready. They were not.
“Don’t you think it’s rather jolly bringing dinner?” she said to Mr. Brunt.
“I don’t know as I do,” he said, spreading a serviette on a corner of the table, and not looking at her.
“I suppose it is too far for you to go home?”
“Yes,” he said. Then he rose and looked at her. He had the bluest, fiercest, most pointed eyes that she had ever met. He stared at her with growing fierceness.
“If I were you, Miss Brangwen,” he said, menacingly, “I should get a bit tighter hand over my class.”
Ursula shrank.
“Would you?” she asked, sweetly, yet in terror. “Aren’t I strict enough?”
“Because,” he repeated, taking no notice of her, “they’ll get you down if you don’t tackle ’em pretty quick. They’ll pull you down, and worry you, till Harby gets you shifted—that’s how it’ll be. You won’t be here another six weeks”—and he filled his mouth with food—“if you don’t tackle ’em and tackle ’em quick.”