It was agony to the impulsive, bright girl of seventeen to become distant and official, having no personal relationship with the children. For a few days, after the agony of the Monday, she succeeded, and had some success with her class. But it was a state not natural to her, and she began to relax. Then came another infliction. There were not enough pens to go round the class. She sent to Mr. Harby for more. He came in person. “Not enough pens, Miss Brangwen?” he said, with the smile and calm of exceeding rage against her. “No, we are six short,” she said, quaking. “Oh, how is that?” he said, menacingly. Then, looking over the class, he asked: “How many are there here to-day?” “Fifty-two,” said Ursula, but he did not take any notice, counting for himself. “Fifty-two,” he said. “And how many pens are there, Staples?” Ursula was now silent. He would not heed her if she answered, since he had addressed the monitor. “That’s a very curious thing,” said Mr. Harby, looking over the silent class with a slight grin of fury. All the childish faces looked up at him blank and exposed. “A few days ago there were sixty pens for this class—now there are forty-eight. What is forty-eight from sixty, Williams?” There was a sinister suspense in the question. A thin, ferret-faced boy in a sailor suit started up exaggeratedly. “Please, sir!” he said. Then a slow, sly grin came over his face. He did not know. There was a tense silence. The boy dropped his head. Then he looked up again, a little cunning triumph in his eyes. “Twelve,” he said. “I would advise you to attend,” said the headmaster dangerously. The boy sat down. “Forty-eight from sixty is twelve: so there are twelve pens to account for. Have you looked for them, Staples?” “Yes, sir.” “Then look again.” The scene dragged on. Two pens were found: ten were missing. Then the storm burst. “Am I to have you thieving, besides your dirt and bad work and bad behaviour?” the headmaster began. “Not content with being the worst-behaved and dirtiest class in the school, you are thieves into the bargain, are you? It is a very funny thing! Pens don’t melt into the air: pens are not in the habit of mizzling away into nothing. What has become of them then? They must be somewhere. What has become of them? For they must be found, and found by Standard Five. They were lost by Standard Five, and they must be found.” Ursula stood and listened, her heart hard and cold. She was so much upset, that she felt almost mad. Something in her tempted her to turn on the headmaster and tell him to stop, about the miserable pens. But she did not. She could not. After every session, morning and evening, she had the pens counted. Still they were missing. And pencils and india-rubbers disappeared. She kept the class staying behind, till the things were found. But as soon as Mr. Harby had gone out of the room, the boys began to jump about and shout, and at last they bolted in a body from the school.