Klaas Pool was a school director. She was to live at his house. Perhaps she should not have said that about the cabbages. So now she drew herself up primly and tried to appear the school teacher, and succeeded in looking as severe as a white pansy. “Ahem!” (or nearly that). “You have three children, haven’t you, Mr. Pool? They’ll all be my pupils?” Klaas Pool ruminated on this. He concentrated so that a slight frown marred the serenity of his brow. In this double question of hers, an attempt to give the conversation a dignified turn, she had apparently created some difficulty for her host. He was trying to shake his head two ways at the same time. This gave it a rotary motion. Selina saw, with amazement, that he was attempting to nod negation and confirmation at once. “You mean you haven’t—or they’re not?—or——?” “I have got three children. All will not be your pupils.” There was something final, unshakable in his delivery of this. “Dear me! Why not? Which ones won’t?” This fusillade proved fatal. It served permanently to check the slight trickle of conversation which had begun to issue from his lips. They jogged on for perhaps a matter of three miles, in silence. Selina told herself then, sternly, that she must not laugh. Having told herself this, sternly, she began to laugh because she could not help it; a gay little sound that flew out like the whir of a bird’s wing on the crisp autumnal sunset air. And suddenly this light sound was joined by a slow rumbling that swelled and bubbled a good deal in the manner of the rich glubby sounds that issue from a kettle that has been simmering for a long time. So they laughed together, these two; the rather scared young thing who was trying to be prim, and the dull, unimaginative truck farmer because this alert, great-eyed, slim white creature perched birdlike on the wagon seat beside him had tickled his slow humour-sense. Selina felt suddenly friendly and happy. “Do tell me which ones will and which won’t.” “Geertje goes to school. Jozina goes to school. Roelf works by the farm.” “How old is Roelf?” She was being school teacherly again. “Roelf is twelve.” “Twelve! And no longer at school! But why not!” “Roelf he works by the farm.” “Doesn’t Roelf like school?” “But sure.” “Don’t you think he ought to go to school?” “But sure.” Having begun, she could not go back. “Doesn’t your wife want Roelf to go to school any more?” “Maartje? But sure.” She gathered herself together; hurled herself behind the next question. “Then why _doesn’t_ he go to school, for pity’s sake!” Klaas Pool’s pale blue eyes were fixed on the spot between the horse’s ears. His face was serene, placid, patient. “Roelf he works by the farm.” Selina subsided, beaten.