and kill a policeman. But you wouldn't care for that. So the only thing
for you to do is to knock on the ceiling. Then I'll come charging down
and see if there's anything I can do to help.'

'You'll be sorry you ever said this.'

'I won't,' he said stoutly.

'If you really mean it, it _would_ be a relief,' she admitted.
'Sometimes I'd give all the money I'm ever likely to make for someone
to shriek my grievances at. I always think it must have been so nice
for the people in the old novels, when they used to say: "Sit down and
I will tell you the story of my life." Mustn't it have been heavenly?'

'Well,' said Beverley, rising, 'you know where I am if I'm wanted.
Right up there where the knocking came from.'

'Knocking?' said Annette. 'I remember no knocking.'

'Would you mind shaking hands?' said Beverley.

* * * * *

A particularly maddening hour with one of her pupils drove her up the
very next day. Her pupils were at once her salvation and her despair.
They gave her the means of supporting life, but they made life hardly
worth supporting. Some of them were learning the piano. Others thought
they sang. All had solid ivory skulls. There was about a teaspoonful of
grey matter distributed among the entire squad, and the pupil Annette
had been teaching that afternoon had come in at the tail-end of the