And then she turned and spoke to him, and at once he put up his hand as though he would stroke his chin, but really it was to cover the stud—the large soup-plate stud. He stroked his straggling mustache, and used his official voice. He spoke as he always did when he wanted to create an impression, as though in the cloistral courts of Cambridge. Slow, deliberate, a little majestic... he shot his cuff back into his sleeve. He spoke of ambition, of the things that a man could do if he tried, of the things that he could do, if— “If?” said Isabel. “Oh! well, if... marriage, for instance, was such a help to a man... one never knew—” He drank furiously and finished at a gulp a glass of Freddie Comber's very bad claret. Young Traill was having a very good time indeed with Miss Madder, and Isabel turned round to hear what they were talking about. The meringues had arrived—there was also fruit-salad, but everyone took meringues although they would have liked, had they dared, to take both—and conversation was quite lively. “I do hope,” said Mrs. Dormer, “that there will be several extra halves this term.” And at once poor Mrs. Comber, who was eagerly congratulating herself on the success with which, so far, she had escaped danger, burst in: “Oh, so do I. You know, they always used to give the boys a half for every new baby born on the establishment. Well, you and I have done our duty nobly in that direction, haven't we, Mrs. Dormer?” It is impossible that those who are not acquainted with both ladies should have any conception of the disaster that this simple sentence involved. Mrs. Dormer had a glorious, pugnacious prudery in her stiff, angular body that rejoiced in any opportunity for display. She hated Mrs. Comber; she had now an excuse for being offended for weeks. She could embroider and discuss to her heart's delight. She saw in the amusement of Miss Madder, the discomfort of her husband, the dismay of Miss Desart, the distaste of Mr. Perrin, the wrath of Mr. Comber, ample confirmation of her exultant prophecies. It does not take much to make a scandal at Moffatt's—and the propriety of the schoolmaster, the anxious, eager propriety, exceeds the propriety of every other profession. Mrs. Dormer had the game in her hands, and she played the first move by sitting silently, whitely, protestingly in her chair. “I do hope the football will be good this season,” she said at last, quietly and patiently, to Mr. Comber.