Jennie rose and walked to the rear of the room and back, twice. When she spoke, there was decision in her tone—and Jim felt that it was hostile decision.
“As an officer,” she said rather grandly, “my relations with the district are with the school board on the one hand, and with your competency as a teacher on the other.”
“Has it come to that?” asked Jim. “Well, I have rather expected it.”
His tone was weary. The Lincolnian droop in his great, sad, mournful mouth accentuated the resemblance to the martyr president. Possibly his feelings were not entirely different from those experienced by Lincoln at some crises of doubt, misunderstanding and depression.
“If you can’t change your methods,” said Jennie, “I suggest that you resign.”
“Do you think,” said Jim, “that changing my methods would appease the men who feel that they are made laughing-stocks by having elected me?”
Jennie was silent; for she knew that the school board meant to pursue their policy of getting rid of the accidental incumbent regardless of his methods.
“They would never call off their dogs,” said Jim.
“But your methods would make a great difference with my decision,” said Jennie.
“Are you to be called upon to decide?” asked Jim.