Before her stood the incomparable Augustus, shabby, handsome, defiant; and to his arm clung Katharine Holland, white and frightened, but with her head up and a challenge in her eyes.
Belinda stared for a second in bewilderment. Then she understood. She tried to remember that she was a teacher and to fix the culprits with an icy glare, but Belinda is not very old herself, and in common with all the world she loves a lover. The situation was shocking—but—the look on the girl's face was too much for the Youngest Teacher's severity.
Impulsively Belinda held out her arms.
"Oh, you poor child," she said. "You poor, foolish, hurt child." Her voice was athrill with tenderness. Her face was aglow with the mother-love that lives in the woman heart from doll days to the end of life.
With a little sob the girl moved forward blindly. Belinda's arms went round her and drew her close.
"Hush, dear. Don't cry. This is all wrong, but you've been very unhappy and you didn't mean to do wrong."
The Youngest Teacher's eyes met those of the boy who stood, crimson-cheeked, uncertain, under the glare of the electric light; and she studied his face—a good-looking, determined face, with honest manliness under its boyish recklessness.
"It wasn't fair," she said softly. "It wasn't fair to her. You would take care of her better than this if you loved her."
The recklessness faded, leaving the manliness.
"They've treated us abominably."