Ursula took her dinner to school, and during the second week
ate it in Miss Schofield's room. Standard Three classroom stood
by itself and had windows on two sides, looking on to the
playground. It was a passionate relief to find such a retreat in
the jarring school. For there were pots of chrysanthemums and
coloured leaves, and a big jar of berries: there were pretty
little pictures on the wall, photogravure reproductions from
Greuze, and Reynolds's "Age of Innocence", giving an air of
intimacy; so that the room, with its window space, its smaller,
tidier desks, its touch of pictures and flowers, made Ursula at
once glad. Here at last was a little personal touch, to which
she could respond.
It was Monday. She had been at school a week and was getting
used to the surroundings, though she was still an entire
foreigner in herself. She looked forward to having dinner with
Maggie. That was the bright spot in the day. Maggie was so
strong and remote, walking with slow, sure steps down a hard
road, carrying the dream within her. Ursula went through the
class teaching as through a meaningless daze.
Her class tumbled out at midday in haphazard fashion. She did
not realize what host she was gathering against herself by her
superior tolerance, her kindness and her laisseraller. They were
gone, and she was rid of them, and that was all. She hurried
away to the teachers' room.
Mr. Brunt was crouching at the small stove, putting a little
rice pudding into the oven. He rose then, and attentively poked
in a small saucepan on the hob with a fork. Then he replaced the
saucepan lid.
"Aren't they done?" asked Ursula gaily, breaking in on his
tense absorption.
She always kept a bright, blithe manner, and was pleasant to
all the teachers. For she felt like the swan among the geese, of
superior heritage and belonging. And her pride at being the swan
in this ugly school was not yet abated.
"Not yet," replied Mr. Brunt, laconic.
"I wonder if my dish is hot," she said, bending down at the
oven. She half expected him to look for her, but he took no
notice. She was hungry and she poked her finger eagerly in the
pot to see if her brussels sprouts and potatoes and meat were
ready. They were not.
"Don't you think it's rather jolly bringing dinner?" she said
to Mr. Brunt.
"I don't know as I do," he said, spreading a serviette on a
corner of the table, and not looking at her.
"I suppose it is too far for you to go home?"
"Yes," he said. Then he rose and looked at her. He had the
bluest, fiercest, most pointed eyes that she had ever met. He
stared at her with growing fierceness.
"If I were you, Miss Brangwen," he said, menacingly, "I
should get a bit tighter hand over my class."