wooden floors of the hall, down the ill-built, resounding stairs, out
to the playground--out to Sylvia's ordeal.

As she came out blinkingly into the strong spring sunlight, she still
had reached no decision. Her impulse was to run, as fast as she could,
out to the gate and down the street--home! But another impulse held
her back. The lines were breaking up. Camilla was turning about with
a smile to speak to her. Malevolent eyes were fixed on them from all
sides. Sylvia felt her indecision mount in a cloud about her, like
blinding, scalding steam.

And then, there before her, stood Judith, her proud dark little face
set in an angry scowl, her arm about Cécile Fingál's neck.

Sylvia never could think what she would have done if Judith had not
been there; but then, Judith was one of the formative elements of her
life--as much as was the food she ate or the thoughts she had. What
she did was to turn as quickly and unhesitatingly as though she had
always meant to do it, put her arm through Camilla's and draw her
rapidly towards the gate where the surrey waited. Judith and Cécile
followed. The crowds of astonished, and for the moment silenced,
children fell back before them.

Once she had taken her action, Sylvia saw that it was the only one
possible. But she was upheld by none of the traditional pride in a
righteous action, nor by a raging single-mindedness like Judith's, who
stalked along, her little fists clenched, frowning blackly to right
and left on the other children, evidently far more angry with them
than sympathetic for Cécile. Sylvia did not feel angry with any one.
She was simply more acutely miserable than she had ever dreamed