hostile faces which made up her world, the world she had to live in,
the world which had been so full of sweet and innocent happiness for
her, the world which would now be ranged with her or against her
according to her decision at noon, she was overcome by a panic at the
very idea of throwing her single self against this many-headed tyrant.
With an unspeakable terror she longed to feel the safe walls of
conformity about her. There was a battle with drawn swords in the
heart of the little girl trying blindly to see where the _n_ came in
"pneumonia."

The clock crept on, past eleven, towards twelve. Sylvia had come to no
decision. She could come to no decision! She felt herself consciously
to be unable to cope with the crisis. She was too small, too weak, too
shrinking, to make herself iron, and resist an overwhelming force.

It was five minutes of twelve. The order was given to put away books
and pencils in the desks. Sylvia's hands trembled so that she could
hardly close the lid.

"Turn!" said the teacher, in her tired, mechanical voice. The children
turned their stubbed-toed shoes out into the aisle, their eyes
menacingly on Camilla.

"Rise!" Like a covey of partridge, they all stood up, stretching,
twisting their bodies, stiff and torpid after the long hours of
immobility.

"Pass!" Clattering feet all over the building began moving along the
aisles and out towards the cloakrooms. Every one seized his own wraps
with a practised snatch, and passed on, still in line, over the dusty