"It all falls on me! People don't realise that. The extra work is enormous. Miss Marsham depends on me so entirely, of course." "Yes, yes," murmured Clare appreciatively. Henrietta played with her papers. "I feel the responsibility very strongly," she said abruptly; but her tone was confidential. Clare nodded. "Yet, of course--as far as nominal responsibility goes--I am not the head of the school. I cannot be held responsible--any oversight----" Clare nodded. "Oh, Miss Vigers--you merely carry out instructions, like the rest of us"--she hesitated imperceptibly--"officially," she added slowly. Henrietta looked relieved. "I am so glad you see what I mean." "Oh, I do, entirely," Clare assured her grimly. "I'm not heartless," said Henrietta suddenly, flushing. Her tone justified herself against unuttered criticism. "And the poor child's death was as much a shock to me as to any one. But I was not fond of her--as you were, for instance----" Clare's pose never altered. "I was very proud of her," she said gently. "I thought her an exceptional child. But, as Miss Durand said to me only a few days ago--I didn't really know her: not, at least, as she did. Alwynne, I know, thinks we have lost a genius. But you're right--it was a shock to me--a terrible shock." "It was that to everybody, naturally. But in a way it's curious," said Henrietta meditatively, "how much we all feel it--how oppressively, at least: for I don't think any one was very fond of Louise." "Oh, Miss Durand was deeply attached to her," Clare protested, her beautiful voice low with emotion. "Yes, of course! Oh, I've noticed that." Clare's unusual accessibility made Henrietta anxious to agree. Also, though she had noticed nothing unusual, she did not wish to appear lacking in penetration. She recalled Alwynne's haggard face; recollected how much she had had to do with the child; and decided that Clare was probably right. "But except for her," she went on, "and your interest in her----" "I've never had such a pupil," said Clare calmly. "Industrious--original--oh, I shall miss her, I know. But you're right--she was not popular----" "Yet everybody feels her death--among ourselves, I mean--to an extraordinary degree. After all--an accident is only an accident, however dreadful! But there's a sort of oppression on us--a kind of fear. Do you know what I mean? I think we all feel it. It draws us together in a curious way." "'The Tie of Common Funk,'" rapped out Clare, forgetting her rôle. Henrietta stiffened. "I don't think it is an occasion for slang," she said. "The child's not buried yet." Clare bit back a flippancy. "I thought you would realise," continued Henrietta severely, "that the situation is trying for us all----" "Of course I do." Clare hastened to soothe her. "But seriously, Miss Vigers, I do not think you need be anxious. The inquest--oh, a painful ordeal, if you like. But you, at least, can have no reason to reproach yourself." Henrietta relaxed again.