“I wonder if my dish is hot,” she said, bending down at the oven. She half expected him to look for her, but he took no notice. She was hungry and she poked her finger eagerly in the pot to see if her brussels sprouts and potatoes and meat were ready. They were not. “Don’t you think it’s rather jolly bringing dinner?” she said to Mr. Brunt. “I don’t know as I do,” he said, spreading a serviette on a corner of the table, and not looking at her. “I suppose it is too far for you to go home?” “Yes,” he said. Then he rose and looked at her. He had the bluest, fiercest, most pointed eyes that she had ever met. He stared at her with growing fierceness. “If I were you, Miss Brangwen,” he said, menacingly, “I should get a bit tighter hand over my class.” Ursula shrank. “Would you?” she asked, sweetly, yet in terror. “Aren’t I strict enough?” “Because,” he repeated, taking no notice of her, “they’ll get you down if you don’t tackle ’em pretty quick. They’ll pull you down, and worry you, till Harby gets you shifted—that’s how it’ll be. You won’t be here another six weeks”—and he filled his mouth with food—“if you don’t tackle ’em and tackle ’em quick.” “Oh, but——” Ursula said, resentfully, ruefully. The terror was deep in her. “Harby’ll not help you. This is what he’ll do—he’ll let you go on, getting worse and worse, till either you clear out or he clears you out. It doesn’t matter to me, except that you’ll leave a class behind you as I hope I shan’t have to cope with.” She heard the accusation in the man’s voice, and felt condemned. But still, school had not yet become a definite reality to her. She was shirking it. It was reality, but it was all outside her. And she fought against Mr. Brunt’s representation. She did not want to realize. “Will it be so terrible?” she said, quivering, rather beautiful, but with a slight touch of condescension, because she would not betray her own trepidation. “Terrible?” said the man, turning to his potatoes again. “I dunno about terrible.” “I _do_ feel frightened,” said Ursula. “The children seem so——” “What?” said Miss Harby, entering at that moment. “Why,” said Ursula, “Mr. Brunt says I ought to tackle my class,” and she laughed uneasily. “Oh, you have to keep order if you want to teach,” said Miss Harby, hard, superior, trite. Ursula did not answer. She felt non valid before them. “If you want to be let to _live,_ you have,” said Mr. Brunt. “Well, if you can’t keep order, what good are you?” said Miss Harby. “An’ you’ve got to do it by yourself,”—his voice rose like the bitter cry of the prophets. “You’ll get no _help_ from anybody.” “Oh, indeed!” said Miss Harby. “Some people can’t be helped.” And she departed. The air of hostility and disintegration, of wills working in antagonistic subordination, was hideous. Mr. Brunt, subordinate, afraid, acid with shame, frightened her. Ursula wanted to run. She only wanted to clear out, not to understand.