For a long time he sat there, explaining that there was nothing to be afraid of, and that he would give her the infants' school. You felt him filling the room, crushing you back and back, forcing his will on you. There was too much of his will, too much of his face. Her will rose up against his will and against his face, and its false, muscular smile. "I'm sure my mother didn't say I'd like to teach in a Sunday School." "She said she'd be very glad if I could persuade you." "She'd say _that_. But she knows perfectly well I wouldn't really do it." "It was not Mrs. Olivier's idea." He got up. When he stood his eyes stared at nothing away over your head. He wouldn't lower them to look at you. "It was Mrs. Sutcliffe's." "How funny of Mrs. Sutcliffe. She doesn't know me, either." "My dear young lady, you were at school when your father and mother dined at Greffington Hall." He was looking down at her now, and she could feel herself blushing; hot, red waves of shame, rushing up, tingling in the roots of her hair. "Mrs. Sutcliffe," he said, "is very kind." She saw it now. He had been at the Sutcliffes that evening. He had seen Papa. He was trying to say, "Your father was drunk at Greffington Hall. He will never be asked there again. He will not be particularly welcome at the Vicarage. But you are very young. We do not wish you to suffer. This is our kindness to you. Take it. You are not in a position to refuse." "And what am I to say to Mrs. Sutcliffe?" "Oh, anything you like that wouldn't sound too rude." "Shall I say that you're a very independent young lady, and that she had better not ask you to join her sewing-class? Would that sound too rude?" "Not a bit. If you put it nicely. But you would, wouldn't you?" He looked down at her again. His thick eyes had thawed slightly; they let out a twinkle. But he was holding his lips so tight that they had disappeared. A loud, surprising laugh forced them open. He held out his hand with a gesture, drawing back his laugh in a tremendous "Fiv-v-v-v." When he had gone she opened the piano and played, and played. Through the window of the room Chopin's Fontana Polonaise went out after him, joyous, triumphant and defiant, driving him before it. She exulted in her power over the Polonaise. Nothing could touch you, nothing could hurt you while you played. If only you could go on playing for ever-- Her mother came in from the garden. "Mary," she said, "if you _will_ play, you must play gently." "But Mamma--I can't. It goes like that." "Then," said her mother, "don't play it. You can be heard all over the village." "Bother the village. I don't care. I don't care if I'm heard all over everywhere!" She went on playing. But it was no use. She struck a wrong note. Her hands trembled and lost their grip. They stiffened, dropped from the keys. She sat and stared idiotically at the white page, at the black dots nodding on their stems, at the black bars swaying.