“Oh, Miss Sibson,” came from the corner in an agonised whisper, “please may I go?” Fourteen standing on a stool with a backboard could not bear to be seen by the other sex.
Miss Sibson looked grave. “Are you sincerely sorry for your fault?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“And will you apologise to Miss Smith for your—your gross rudeness?”
“Ye-es.”
“Then go and do so,” Miss Sibson replied; “and close the doors after you.”
The girl fled. And simultaneously Miss Sibson rose, with a mixture of dignity and blandness, to receive Arthur Vaughan. The schoolmistress of that day who had not manner at command had nothing; for deportment ranked among the essentials. And she was quite at her ease. The same could not be said of the gentleman. But that his pride still smarted, but that the outrage of yesterday was fresh, but that he drew a savage satisfaction from the prospect of the apologies he was here to receive, he had not come. Even so, he had told himself more than once that he was a fool to come; a fool to set foot in the house. He was almost sure that he had done more wisely had he burned the letter in which the schoolmistress informed him that she had an explanation to offer—and so had made an end.
But if in place of meeting him with humble apologies, this confounded woman were going to bear herself as if no amends were due, he had indeed made a mistake.
Yet her manner said almost as much as that. “Pray be seated, sir,” she said; and she indicated a chair.
He sat down stiffly, and glowered at her. “I received your note,” he said.