“If you want to be let to live, you have,” said Mr. Brunt.
“Well, if you can’t keep order, what good are you?” said Miss Harby.
“An’ you’ve got to do it by yourself,”—his voice rose like the bitter cry of the prophets. “You’ll get no help from anybody.”
“Oh, indeed!” said Miss Harby. “Some people can’t be helped.” And she departed.
The air of hostility and disintegration, of wills working in antagonistic subordination, was hideous. Mr. Brunt, subordinate, afraid, acid with shame, frightened her. Ursula wanted to run. She only wanted to clear out, not to understand.
Then Miss Schofield came in, and with her another, more restful note. Ursula at once turned for confirmation to the newcomer. Maggie remained personal within all this unclean system of authority.
“Is the big Anderson here?” she asked of Mr. Brunt. And they spoke of some affair about two scholars, coldly, officially.
Miss Schofield took her brown dish, and Ursula followed with her own. The cloth was laid in the pleasant Standard Three room, there was a jar with two or three monthly roses on the table.
“It is so nice in here, you have made it different,” said Ursula gaily. But she was afraid. The atmosphere of the school was upon her.
“The big room,” said Miss Schofield, “ha, it’s misery to be in it!”