The child's face was very drawn; her eyes seemed larger than ever; she looked like a little old woman! Alwynne was concerned; she felt vaguely responsible. She, too, wished that the news, good or bad, would come, and put an end at least to the tension. And one morning, all unexpectedly, the news did come. The performances were but two days away. The decorous Big Hall was in confusion. The school sat, picnic-fashion, for its prayers; and the head mistress, entering between half-hung cloths, mounted a battlemented rostrum to address it. She carried a sheaf of papers. Louise, sitting with her class at the further end of the hall, outwardly decorous enough, was in reality paying little attention. Her vague, unhappy thoughts were concerned with the coming rehearsal; she could not remember what Miss Hartill's last directions had been; she was sure she should stumble. Sometimes the mere words seemed to evade her. Yet the play was on her shoulders--Miss Durand had said so. She supposed Prince Arthur was really fond of Hubert? Not pretending, because he was afraid? But of course it was easy to love a person and yet be terrified of them. She stole a look at Clare, prominent in the grave group of mistresses. They were all very intent. It dawned on her that the head mistress had been speaking for several minutes. Suddenly there was an outburst of clapping. The spectacled girl at the end of the row grew pink and stared at her hands. "What is it?" breathed Louise. "Oh, what is it? What is it?" A neighbour caught the murmur and looked down at her curiously. "Are you asleep? It's the lists. Your exam. You'll be second, I expect." But Marion was second. The clapping crackled up anew. So the news was come! It was cruel to let it spring upon you thus.... You would have asked so little ... ten minutes ... a bare ... in which to brace yourself.... Surprise was horrible ... it caught you with your soul half-naked ... it shocked like sudden noise.... There came a fresh outburst. It was wicked to make such sounds ... like all the policeman's-rattles in the world.... The reading proceeded; it calmed her; it barely stirred the beautiful silence. But presently the neat voice altered. Old Edith Marsham was a kindly soul. She had not quite forgotten her own schooldays. She realised, perfunctorily, as the successful do, the blankness of defeat. Louise heard her name pronounced, a trifle hurriedly. Louise Denny--failed. She made no sign. She sat erect, listening to the conclusion of that matter, clapped in due course, stood, kneeled, rose again, as applause, hymns and prayers buzzed about her, filed with her class from the hall and added her shy word to the clamour of congratulation in the long corridors. Inwardly, she was stunned by the evil that was upon her. The irregular morning classes (the imminent entertainment had disorganised the entire system of work) gave her time to rouse, to review her position.