A chattering crowd of girls closed in behind her. One voice rose above the rest:
“Well, I don't know what you call it, then. He skated with her all the winter, and at the Dickinson party they sat on one sofa for an hour and talked steadily!”
“Oh, nonsense! She skates beautifully, that's all.”
“She sits on a sofa beautifully, too.” A burst of laughter, and the door closed.
The German assistant smiled satirically. It was all of a piece. At least, the younger women were perfectly frank about it: they did not feel themselves forced to employ sarcasm in their references; it was not necessary for them to appear to have definitely chosen this life in preference to any other. Four years was little to lend to such an experiment. But the older women, who sat on those prim little platforms year after year—a sudden curiosity possessed her to know how many of them were really satisfied.
Could it be that they had preferred—actually preferred—But she had, herself, three years ago. She shook her head decidedly. “Not for nine years, not for nine!” she murmured, as she caught through the heavy door a familiar voice raised to emphasize some French phrase.
And yet, somebody must teach them. They could not be born with foreign idioms and historical dates and mathematical formulae in their little heads. She herself deplored the modern tendency that sent a changing drift of young teachers through the colleges, to learn at the expense of the students a soon relinquished profession. But how ridiculous the position of the women who prided themselves on the steadiness and continuity of their service! Surely they must find it an empty success at times. They must regret.
She was passing through the chapel. Two scrubbing-women were straightening the chairs, their backs turned to her.
“From all I hear,” said one, with a chuckle and a sly glance, “we'll be afther gettin' our invitations soon.”
“An' to what?” demanded the other quickly.