The children standing at ease, saying whatever occurred to them, even the snoring girl secured from ridicule by Miriam’s consideration of whatever was offered. Their adventure took them away from their subject into what Miriam knew “clever” people would call “side issues.” “Nothing is a side issue,” she told herself passionately with her eyes on the green glare beyond the window. The breaking up of Miss Perne’s class left the whole of the lower school on her hands for the rest of the morning. 2 By half-past twelve she was sitting alone and exhausted with aching throat at her place at the head of the table. “Khoo, _isn’t_ it a filthy day!” Polly Allen, a short heavy girl with a sallow pitted face, thin ill-nourished hair and kind swiftly moving grey eyes, marched in out of the dark hall with flapping bootlaces. In the bay she sat down and began to lace up her boots. The laces flicked carelessly upon the linoleum as she threaded, profaning the little sanctuary of the window space. “Oh me bones, me poor old bones,” she muttered. “Eunice!” her hard mature voice vibrated through the room. “Eunice Dupont!” “What’s the jolly row?” said a slow voice at the door. “Wot’s the bally shindy, beloved?” “Like a really beautiful Cheshire cat,” Miriam repeated to herself, propped studiously on her elbows shrinking, and hoping that if she did not look round, Eunice’s carved brown curls, her gleaming slithering opaque oval eyes and her short upper lip, the strange evil carriage of her head, the wicked lines of her figure, would be withdrawn. “Cheshire, Cheshire,” she scolded inwardly, feeling the pain in her throat increase. “Nothing. Wait for me. That’s all. Oh, my lungs, bones _and_ et ceteras. It’s old age, I suppose, Uncle William.” “Well, hurry your old age up, that’s all. I’m ready.” “Well, don’t go away, you funny cuckoo, you can wait, can’t you?” A party of girls straggled in one by one and drifted towards Polly in the window space. “It’s the parties I look forward to.” “Oh, look at her tie!” “My tie? Six-three at Crisp’s.” The sounds of Polly’s bootlacing came to an end. She sat holding a court. “Doesn’t look forward to parties? She must be a funny cuckoo!” “Dancing’s divine,” said a smooth deep smiling voice. “Reversing. Khoo! with a fella. Khooo!” “You surprise me, Edie. You do indeed. Hoh. Shocking.” “Shocking? Why? What do you mean, Poll?” “Nothing. Nothing. Riang doo too.” “I don’t think dancing’s shocking. How can it be? You’re barmy, my son.” “Ever heard of Lottie Collins?” “Ssh. Don’t be silly.” “I don’t see what Lottie Collins has got to do with it. My mother thinks dancing’s all right. That’s good enough for me.” “Well--I’m not your mother.” “Nor anyone else’s.” “Khoo, _Mabel_.” “Who wants to be anyone’s mother?” “Not me. Ug. Beastly little brats.” “Oh shut _up_. Oh you _do_ make me tired.” “Kids are jolly. A1. I hope I have lots.”