Then the French mistress would scowl across the table, and say, “Now you’ve put me out! I was just counting up my marks. Oh, do be quiet!”
“Sorry!” Cecil would say shortly, and taking up her pencil slash scathing comments at the side of the foolscap sheets. Anon she would smile, and smile again, and forgetting Claire’s request, would interrupt once more.
“Can you remember the name of Florence Mason?”
“If I strain my intellect to its utmost, I believe I can.”
“Well, remember, then! It will be worth while. She’ll do something—that girl. When you are an insignificant old woman, you may be proud to boast that you used to sit at the very table on which her first English essays were corrected.”
“So they are not all dull, stupid, unimaginative?”
“The exception proves the rule!” cried Cecil, and swept the papers together with a sigh of relief. “Done at last. Now for my blouse.”
Claire cast a glance at the clock.
“Half-past ten. And you are so tired. Surely you won’t begin to sew at this hour?”
“I must. I want it for Saturday. I tried it on last night, and it wasn’t a bit nice at the neck. I’ve got to alter it somehow.”