The first greetings were from Mr. Benthall. Marian had determined that she would not go down Southwood Lane, which led to the schoolhouse, as she had no desire of encountering either master or boys in her then mood. She had not been near the school since she and her mother left the house, and she had arranged in her mind a little farewell on her part to both when she left the village. And now here was Mr. Benthall advancing straight towards her, and there was no possibility of escape, as she remembered that it was the Saturday half-holiday, and that she should probably have to run the gauntlet of a score of friends. Mr. Benthall was a brisk, lively, agreeable man, with cheerfulness and pleasant manners, and plenty of small talk. He was, moreover, a gentleman and a man of the world, and he knew exactly how to pitch the key of his conversation to a young lady, the daughter of his predecessor, who might or might not--Mr. Benthall's experience of human nature told him might, and probably would--feel somewhat antipathetic towards him. So Mr. Benthall talked of Mrs. Ashurst, and of Mr. Creswell, and of the young ladies, and of Tom. "My friend Trollope's young charge," as Mr. Benthall spoke of him, with a somewhat malicious sparkle in his eye. And the weather was quite cold, was it not? and the frost had set in quite early, had it not? And Miss Ashurst was looking so blooming that Mr. Benthall had no need to ask her how she was, which was, indeed, the reason why he had not done so long since, but must beg her to take charge of his kindest compliments for her mother and the young ladies and Mr. Creswell. And Mr. Benthall had taken off his well-brushed hat, and had skipped across the road in his well-brushed, shapely boots, and Marian was contrasting him with that figure which was ever present to her memory--her father, bowed, and shrunken, and slatternly, and ill-dressed--when she heard her Christian name called aloud, and Dr. Osborne, in his little four-wheeled pony-carriage, drew up by her side. "Well, Princess!" said the cheery old medico; "for since I have made you hear I may as well address you by your title--well, Princess, how goes it?" "It goes very well indeed, dear Dr. Osborne," said Marian, returning his hand-pressure. "But why Princess?" "Why Princess! What lower rank could a girl be who lives in a palace, over there, I mean, with 'vassals and slaves by her side,' as I've heard my girl sing years ago, and all that kind of thing?" "But surely only a princess of the Cinderella style, my dear doctor; only enjoying the vassals and the slaves, and what you call 'that kind of thing,' for a very limited time. Twelve o'clock must strike very soon, dear old friend, in our case, and then this princess will go back to the pots and kettles, and cinder-sifting, and a state of life worse than ever she has known before."