But if Mr. Priestley could, and did, take an intelligent interest in his niece’s hobby, Laura failed dismally when the rôles were reversed. Mr. Priestley led her back to the study and there informed her that, as she was evidently destined to be his secretary for rather longer than had been anticipated, she must buckle to and learn Latin at once if she was to be of any real use to him. Nor did he voice this proposition in a deprecating way, as last evening; he spoke it out boldly and firmly, so that it took on practically the air of a command. “Besides,” added Mr. Priestley more kindly, “it will help to occupy your mind a little during the anxious time.” Laura, far too crushed now to dream of objecting (oh, shades of that resourceful young woman in the tube to Maida Vale!) allowed herself to be settled at the table with Kennedy’s Latin Grammar in front of her and meekly received her orders to have the first and second declensions off pat before dinner-time. In case he was not back for that meal, Mr. Priestley added airily, she might dine at eight o’clock and master the third declension afterwards before going to bed. Mr. Priestley was clearly going to prove a sweating employer. A trade union of secretaries would have had a good deal to say about Mr. Priestley, it was plain. “Not back?” said Laura, looking up from the distasteful book in front of her. “Surely you’re not going out, are you?” With simple pride Mr. Priestley drew the large black beard from his pocket which Cynthia had taken him to buy immediately before she left him. He hooked it over his ears and beamed at his niece, looking like a cross between a Bolshevik and a black nanny-goat. Laura shuddered. “I shall be safe enough in this, my dear,” said Mr. Priestley. It flashed into Laura’s mind that he would be more likely to be arrested for causing a crowd to collect, but she no longer had the spirit to put it into words. In some strange way Mr. Priestley had taken autocratic control of the whole affair, and whatever she might say had no more weight than one of the hairs in Mr. Priestley’s beard. She knew this, but she did not resent it. It was a strange feeling to Laura to be in contact with somebody who ordered her about like a rather fatuous sort of dog, and disregarded her wishes and inclinations as though she were more of a hindrance in the scheme of things than a help; and to her amazement she found that she rather liked it. Mr. Priestley was not the only person in his flat who was finding out things he did not know about himself. “Very well, Mr. Priestley,” was all she said. “Uncle Matthew,” corrected Mr. Priestley, with severity. “Uncle Matthew,” Laura repeated humbly. Mr. Priestley almost strode out of the room.