“They ruled with rods of iron,” responded Philomène absently.
“You are not attending properly, child,” said Miss Mills, “or you would not repeat things parrot-fashion out of the book in that way. Do you suppose that one took the poker and the other the tongs? And, you know, you were very careless too about reciting your psalm this morning, saying that the trees of the Lord were full of soup, when you know perfectly well that they aren’t any such thing. What has come over you? Take down your work for to-morrow.”
It was no wonder that Philomène found it difficult to attend to her lessons that day, for she could think of little else than the coming examination, and when tea at last appeared she felt too much excited to eat.
“Now don’t begin to be faddy, Miss, like Master Harold,” said Nurse.
“Who was Master Harold?” asked Philomène, “he wasn’t one of the Ruthven-Smiths, was he?”
“No,” said Nurse, “he was one of their cousins, and he came to stay with them, and a mighty long visit he paid too. I never did like him from the first moment I set eyes on him; he was all fads and fancies, and one day, I remember, he made my poor dear little Miss Maisie cry by telling her that her legs looked like two snakes that had swallowed oranges, and they were no fatter than his own in the middle, for that matter. But if you won’t get along with your tea, Miss, you had better say grace, and run into the garden.”
Outside the afternoon’s sad yellow sunlight lay all across the lawn; it awoke diamond flashes in the wall, and even gilded the handle of the pump. The metallic notes of the starlings were heard on every side, and London was doing its best to forget that it was the largest pile of brick and mortar in the world. Philomène ran to her own garden and up its little pathway. A great fear was at her heart lest yesterday’s experience should prove to have been a make-up also, and nothing more, like Mrs Handy and the rest. Tremblingly she tapped upon the wall, and prompt to her signal came the sound of a step inside, and the turning of the key in the key-hole. Sweet William stood before her in his green suit, with the red and white cockade in his hat.
“Come in,” said he in his delicate high-pitched voice, “everything is quite ready.”
Philomène entered, and the catkin tapestries rustled in the draught of the closing door. The little room looked cool and friendly. On the giant mushroom lay a packet of satin-smooth lily petals, a swan’s quill pen, and two snails’ shells, one filled with red and the other with violet ink, distilled from red roses and from violets. There was also a little pad of moss upon which to dry the pen. Philomène sat down upon the nearest toadstool.
“Well,” said Sweet William pleasantly, “have you been reading up much for the examination?”