Miss Ledbury turned to her.
"I wish you to state exactly what you have had to complain of in Geraldine Le Marchant," she said. And Miss Broom, with a far from amiable expression, repeated the whole—my carelessness and ill-prepared lessons for some time past, the frequent excuses I made, saying that she had not told me what she certainly had told me, my forgetting my French poetry altogether, and persisting in denying that it had been given out.
I did not hear clearly all she said, but she raised her voice at the end, and I caught her last words. I felt again a sort of fury at her, and I gave up all idea of confiding in Miss Ledbury, or of trying to please any one.
Miss Ledbury seemed nervous.
"Geraldine has said her French poetry perfectly," she said. "I think she has taken pains to learn it well."
"It is some time since she has said any lesson perfectly to me, I am sorry to say," snapped Miss Broom.
Miss Ledbury handed her the book.
"You can judge for yourself," she said. "Repeat the verses to Miss Broom, Geraldine."
Then a strange thing happened. I really wanted to say the poetry well, partly out of pride, partly because again something in Miss Ledbury's manner made me feel gentler, but as I opened my mouth to begin, the words entirely left my memory. I looked up—possibly a little help, a syllable just to start me, would have set me right, but instead of that I saw Miss Broom's half-mocking, half-angry face, and Miss Aspinall's cold hard eyes. Miss Ledbury I did not look at. In reality I think both she and Miss Aspinall were afraid of Miss Broom. I do not think Miss Aspinall was as hard as she seemed.
I drew a long breath—no, it was no use. I could not recall one word.