The schoolmaster was a short, sturdy man, with a fine head, and a heavy jowl. Nevertheless he was good-looking, with his shapely brows and nose, and his great, hanging moustache. He seemed absorbed in his work, and took no notice of Ursula’s entry. There was something insulting in the way he could be so actively unaware of another person, so occupied. When he had a moment of absence, he looked up from the table and said good-morning to Ursula. There was a pleasant light in his brown eyes. He seemed very manly and incontrovertible, like something she wanted to push over. “You had a wet walk,” he said to Ursula. “Oh, I don’t mind, I’m used to it,” she replied, with a nervous little laugh. But already he was not listening. Her words sounded ridiculous and babbling. He was taking no notice of her. “You will sign your name here,” he said to her, as if she were some child—“and the time when you come and go.” Ursula signed her name in the time book and stood back. No one took any further notice of her. She beat her brains for something to say, but in vain. “I’d let them in now,” said Mr. Harby to the thin man, who was very hastily arranging his papers. The assistant teacher made no sign of acquiescence, and went on with what he was doing. The atmosphere in the room grew tense. At the last moment Mr. Brunt slipped into his coat. “You will go to the girls’ lobby,” said the schoolmaster to Ursula, with a fascinating, insulting geniality, purely official and domineering. She went out and found Miss Harby, and another girl teacher, in the porch. On the asphalt yard the rain was falling. A toneless bell tang-tang-tanged drearily overhead, monotonously, insistently. It came to an end. Then Mr. Brunt was seen, bare-headed, standing at the other gate of the school yard, blowing shrill blasts on a whistle and looking down the rainy, dreary street. Boys in gangs and streams came trotting up, running past the master and with a loud clatter of feet and voices, over the yard to the boys’ porch. Girls were running and walking through the other entrance. In the porch where Ursula stood there was a great noise of girls, who were tearing off their coats and hats, and hanging them on the racks bristling with pegs. There was a smell of wet clothing, a tossing out of wet, draggled hair, a noise of voices and feet. The mass of girls grew greater, the rage around the pegs grew steadier, the scholars tended to fall into little noisy gangs in the porch. Then Violet Harby clapped her hands, clapped them louder, with a shrill “Quiet, girls, quiet!” There was a pause. The hubbub died down but did not cease. “What did I say?” cried Miss Harby, shrilly. There was almost complete silence. Sometimes a girl, rather late, whirled into the porch and flung off her things. “Leaders—in place,” commanded Miss Harby shrilly. Pairs of girls in pinafores and long hair stood separate in the porch. “Standard Four, Five, and Six—fall in,” cried Miss Harby.