“You have an emotional nature,” the letter went on, “a quick natural response. If only you could learn patience and self-discipline, I do not see why you should not make a good teacher. The least you could do is to try. You need only serve a year, or perhaps two years, as uncertificated teacher. Then you would go to one of the training colleges, where I hope you would take your degree. I most strongly urge and advise you to keep up your studies always with the intention of taking a degree. That will give you a qualification and a position in the world, and will give you more scope to choose your own way. “I shall be proud to see one of my girls win her own economical independence, which means so much more than it seems. I shall be glad indeed to know that one more of my girls has provided for herself the means of freedom to choose for herself.” It all sounded grim and desperate. Ursula rather hated it. But her mother’s contempt and her father’s harshness had made her raw at the quick, she knew the ignominy of being a hanger-on, she felt the festering thorn of her mother’s animal estimation. At length she had to speak. Hard and shut down and silent within herself, she slipped out one evening to the workshed. She heard the tap-tap-tap of the hammer upon the metal. Her father lifted his head as the door opened. His face was ruddy and bright with instinct, as when he was a youth, his black moustache was cut close over his wide mouth, his black hair was fine and close as ever. But there was about him an abstraction, a sort of instrumental detachment from human things. He was a worker. He watched his daughter’s hard, expressionless face. A hot anger came over his breast and belly. “What now?” he said. “Can’t I,” she answered, looking aside, not looking at him, “can’t I go out to work?” “Go out to work, what for?” His voice was so strong, and ready, and vibrant. It irritated her. “I want some other life than this.” A flash of strong rage arrested all his blood for a moment. “Some other life?” he repeated. “Why, what other life do you want?” She hesitated. “Something else besides housework and hanging about. And I want to earn something.” Her curious, brutal hardness of speech, and the fierce invincibility of her youth, which ignored him, made him also harden with anger. “And how do you think _you’re_ going to earn anything?” he asked. “I can become a teacher—I’m qualified by my matric.” He wished her matric. in hell. “And how much are you qualified to earn by your matric.?” he asked, jeering. “Fifty pounds a year,” she said. He was silent, his power taken out of his hand. He had always hugged a secret pride in the fact that his daughters need not go out to work. With his wife’s money and his own they had four hundred a year. They could draw on the capital if need be later on. He was not afraid for his old age. His daughters might be ladies. Fifty pounds a year was a pound a week—which was enough for her to live on independently.