“Does anyone suppose it is?”
“They try to. They have to. For most teachers there is so little else.”
The waiter handed plates of lobster mayonnaise, and Captain Fanshawe said quietly—
“Tell me about the times when the work seems fine.”
“Ah—many times! It depends on one’s own mood and health, because, of course, the circumstances are always the same. There are mornings when one looks round a big class-room and sees all the girls’ faces looking upwards, and it gives one quite a thrilling sense of power and opportunity. That is what the heaven-born teacher must feel every time.—‘Here is the fresh virgin soil, and mine is the joy of planting the right seed! Here are the women of the future, the mothers of the race. For this hour they are mine. What I say, they must hear. They will listen with an attention which even their parents cannot gain. The words which I speak this morning may bear fruit in many lives.’ That’s the ideal attitude, but the ordinary human woman has other mornings when all she feels is—‘Oh, dear me, six hours of this! And what’s the use? Everything I batter in to-day will be forgotten by to-morrow. What’s the ideal anyway in teaching French verbs? I want to go to bed.’”
They laughed together, but Captain Fanshawe sobered quickly, and his brow showed furrows of distress. Claire looked at him and said quickly—
“Do you mind if we don’t talk school? I am Cinderella to-night, wearing fine clothes and supping in state. I’d so much rather talk Cinderella to match.”
“Certainly, certainly. Just as you wish.” Lolling back in his chair, Captain Fanshawe adopted an air of blasé indifference, and drawled slowly, “Quite a good winter, isn’t it? Lots going on. Have you been to the Opera lately?”
“Oh dear!” thought Claire with a gush, “how refreshing to meet a grown-up man who can pretend like a child!” She simpered, and replied artificially, “Oh, yes—quite often. The dear Duchess is so kind; her box is open to me whenever I choose to go. Wonderful scene, isn’t it? All those tiers rising one above another. Do you ever look up at the galleries? Such funny people sit there—men in tweed suits; girls in white blouses. Who are they, should you think? Clerks and typists and school-mistresses, and people of that persuasion?”
“Possibly, I dare say. One never knows. They look quite respectable and quiet, don’t you know!”