"The decision lay with Miss Marsham," she murmured. "Of course. But having a Cinderella on the premises--eh?" "If you know of a glass slipper----" "You fit it on! Exactly! Where did you discover her?" "Starving--literally starving, in the Lower Third." Clare thawed to the congenial listener. "It was an amazing performance, wasn't it? Of course, there was nothing of the actual Arthur in it----" Miss Hamilton nodded. "That struck me. It was a child in trouble--not a boy. Not a girl either--but, of course, only a girl would be precocious enough to conceive and carry out the idea. If she did, that is!" "Oh, it was original," Clare disclaimed prettily. "It had little to do with me. I had to let her go her own way." Miss Hamilton liked her generosity. "You're wise. It's all very well to trim the household lamps, but a burning bush is best left alone. I don't altogether envy you. Genius must be a disturbing factor in a school." "You think she has genius?" "It was more than precocity to-day--or talent. The Constance had talent." "And was third in the scholarship papers. Louise failed completely. Isn't it inexplicable? What is one to do? Of course, it was disgraceful: she should have been first. I expected it. I coached her myself. I know her possibilities. Frankly, I am deeply disappointed." Miss Hamilton pulled her chair nearer. She was interested; Clare was not usually so communicative. But their further conversation was interrupted by the opening of the door, and old Miss Marsham appeared on a visit of congratulation, accepting tea and dispensing compliments with equal stateliness. "An excellent performance! We must felicitate each other--and Miss Hartill. But we are accustomed to great things from Miss Hartill. There can be no uneasiness to-morrow. The child in the green coat, in that scene--ah, you remember? I thought her a trifle indistinct. Perhaps a hint----? Altogether it was excellent. Especially the Constance--most dramatic. If I may criticise--acting is not my department--but the Prince Arthur? Now, were you satisfied? Louise is a dear child, but hardly suitable, eh?" Clare stiffened. "I thought her acting remarkable." "Did you? Now I can't help feeling that Shakespeare never intended it like that. He makes him such a dear little boy. It's so pathetic, you know, where he begs the man not to put out his eyes. So childlike and touching. Like little Lord Fauntleroy. I know I cried when I saw it, years ago. Now this child was not at all appealing." Clare shrugged her shoulders. "It is not a pretty scene, Miss Marsham, though the managers conspire to make us think so. A child at the mercy of brutes, knowing its own danger, terrorised into the extreme of cunning, parading its poor little graces with the skill of a mondaine--it's not pretty! And Louise spared us nothing." Miss Marsham fidgeted. "If that is your view of the scene, Miss Hartill, I wonder that you consider it fit for a school performance." Clare hedged.