"These are the little men," said she. "Children, this is your new master. Miss Maudsley—Mr. Ringrose."
And Harry found himself bowing to the lady with the voice, a lady of any age, but no outward individuality; even as he did so, however, Mrs. Bickersteth beckoned to the governess; and in another moment Harry was alone with the boys.
The new master had never felt quite so shy or so self-conscious as he did during the next few minutes; it was ten times worse than going to school as a new boy. The fellows stood about him, staring frankly, and one in the background whispered something to another, who told him to shut up in a loud voice. Harry seated himself on the edge of the table, swung a leg, stuck his hands in his pockets (where they twitched) and asked the other boys their names.
"James Wren," said the biggest, who looked twelve or thirteen, and was thickly freckled.
"Ernest Wren," said a smaller boy with more freckles.
"Robertson."
"Murray."
"Gifford."
"Simes."
"Perkins."