For a long time he sat there, explaining that there was nothing to be afraid of, and that he would give her the infants' school. You felt him filling the room, crushing you back and back, forcing his will on you. There was too much of his will, too much of his face. Her will rose up against his will and against his face, and its false, muscular smile.
"I'm sure my mother didn't say I'd like to teach in a Sunday School."
"She said she'd be very glad if I could persuade you."
"She'd say that. But she knows perfectly well I wouldn't really do it."
"It was not Mrs. Olivier's idea."
He got up. When he stood his eyes stared at nothing away over your head.
He wouldn't lower them to look at you.
"It was Mrs. Sutcliffe's."
"How funny of Mrs. Sutcliffe. She doesn't know me, either."
"My dear young lady, you were at school when your father and mother dined at Greffington Hall."
He was looking down at her now, and she could feel herself blushing; hot, red waves of shame, rushing up, tingling in the roots of her hair.