“Of course you can’t,” said Miss Harcourt, repenting of her unreasonableness. “You are brave!” Henry blushed.
“Are you an officer?” inquired Miss Harcourt.
“Not quite,” said Henry, wishing somehow that he was.
“If you make haste and become an officer I’ll marry you when I grow up,” said Miss Harcourt, smiling on him kindly. “That is if you like, of course.”
“I should like it very much,” said Henry wistfully, “I didn’t mean it when I said I didn’t like your names just now.”
“You shouldn’t have told stories, then,” said Miss Harcourt severely, but not unkindly; “I can’t bear storytellers.”
The conscience-stricken Henry groaned inwardly, but, reflecting there was plenty of time to confess before the marriage, brightened up again. The “Rivers of Europe” had fallen beneath the table, and were entirely forgotten until the sounds of many feet and many voices in the garden recalled them to a sense of their position.
“Play-time,” said the small girl, picking up her book and skipping to the farthest seat possible from Henry. “Thames, Seine, Danube, Rhine.”
A strong, firm step stopped outside the door, and a key turned in the lock. The door was thrown open, and Miss Dimchurch peeping in, drew back with a cry of surprise. Behind her some thirty small girls, who saw her surprise, but not the reason for it, waited eagerly for light.
“Miss Harcourt!” said the principal in an awful voice.