She wondered if she was naturally idle, or if all other needlewomen had had to get the mastery over similar feelings to those that ramped in her breast, when the monotonous occupation had to be continued for long weary hours after it had become thoroughly uncongenial? Did Miss Brodie, for instance, not know what it was to feel every pulse of her body aching and crying for movement--change--liberty? Was she never conscious that her brain was frantically protesting against the maddening monotony--the unvarying sameness--the crushing tedium of pushing that needle in, then pulling that needle out, again and again and again, as steadily as her pulses beat or her heart throbbed? Did Jean never have to fight against an almost uncontrollable impulse to scream, shout, wave her arms, stamp, swear, play ball with her work, tear down "God Bless our Home," and throw it out of the window; do something--anything--wild, mad and unseemly, to relieve the tedium and assuage the awful tumult of overwrought nerves? But whatever storms might rage within the recesses of her own mind, Miss Brodie was ever outwardly calm--but then Evarne was to all appearances equally passive, equally resigned. She never once complained. While pitying herself as frankly as she sorrowed over a squirrel upon the wheel; a wood-bird shut in a tiny cage; a young dog fastened to its kennel in a walled-in yard, strangling itself frantically against its collar; she suffered all in total silence. However, Jean had an outside interest--a hope that beyond a doubt served to lighten and brighten the tedium of these days of toil. She was engaged to be married to a dashing red-coated soldier, and many of the ends of her evenings were spent in his inspiriting society. Evarne's spare hours were passed in absolute loneliness and solitude. After supper she would wander out, generally along the Embankment, but if she had sufficient energy she would persevere as far as Hyde Park. At all events she would walk about somewhere until she was wearied, not returning home until it was time to go to bed. It was a grey, soul-crushing existence, and she grew depressed and spiritless beneath its burden. She made no effort to change it for anything better. Miss Brodie was satisfied with her, and was always kind. One thing was as good as another, and incompetence was a drug in the labour market. Everyone, too, by whom she was now surrounded laboured more or less incessantly; work made up their lives. She was no miserable exception, no victim, no martyr. Her fate seemed but the common fate of all. "It's a real pity you can't get a young man, Miss Stornway," said Miss Brodie, worried by her apprentice's unconcealable pallor and listlessness. "It certainly does seem to make everything so much easier."