“Oh, but——” Ursula said, resentfully, ruefully. The terror was deep in her.
“Harby’ll not help you. This is what he’ll do—he’ll let you go on, getting worse and worse, till either you clear out or he clears you out. It doesn’t matter to me, except that you’ll leave a class behind you as I hope I shan’t have to cope with.”
She heard the accusation in the man’s voice, and felt condemned. But still, school had not yet become a definite reality to her. She was shirking it. It was reality, but it was all outside her. And she fought against Mr. Brunt’s representation. She did not want to realize.
“Will it be so terrible?” she said, quivering, rather beautiful, but with a slight touch of condescension, because she would not betray her own trepidation.
“Terrible?” said the man, turning to his potatoes again. “I dunno about terrible.”
“I do feel frightened,” said Ursula. “The children seem so——”
“What?” said Miss Harby, entering at that moment.
“Why,” said Ursula, “Mr. Brunt says I ought to tackle my class,” and she laughed uneasily.
“Oh, you have to keep order if you want to teach,” said Miss Harby, hard, superior, trite.
Ursula did not answer. She felt non valid before them.