Part 6 (2/2)

ARTHUR (_holding out his hand eagerly_). If you please, Miss Phoebe.

PHOEBE. Unnatural boy. (_She canes him in a very unprofessional manner._) Poor dear boy.

(_She kisses the hand._)

ARTHUR (_gloomily_). Oh, ma'am, you will never be able to cane if you hold it like that. You should hold it like this, Miss Phoebe, and give it a wriggle like that.

(_She is too soft-hearted to follow his instructions._)

PHOEBE (_almost in tears_). Go away.

ARTHUR (_remembering that women are strange_). Don't cry, ma'am; I love you, Miss Phoebe.

(_She seats him on her knee, and he thinks of a way to please her._)

If any boy says you can't cane I will blood him, Miss Phoebe.

(PHOEBE _shudders, and_ MISS SUSAN _again darts in. She signs to_ PHOEBE _to send_ ARTHUR _away._)

MISS SUSAN (_as soon as_ ARTHUR _has gone_). Phoebe, if a herring and a half cost three ha'pence, how many for elevenpence?

PHOEBE (_instantly_). Eleven.

MISS SUSAN. William Smith says it is fifteen; and he is such a big boy, do you think I ought to contradict him? May I say there are differences of opinion about it? No one can be really sure, Phoebe.

PHOEBE. It is eleven. I once worked it out with real herrings.

(_Stoutly._) Susan, we must never let the big boys know that we are afraid of them. To awe them, stamp with the foot, speak in a ferocious voice, and look them unflinchingly in the face. (_Then she pales._) Oh, Susan, Isabella's father insists on her acquiring algebra.

MISS SUSAN. What is algebra exactly; is it those three cornered things?

PHOEBE. It is _x_ minus _y_ equals _z_ plus _y_ and things like that.

And all the time you are saying they are equal, you feel in your heart, why should they be.

(_The music of the band swells here, and both ladies put their hands to their ears._)

It is the band for to-night's ball. We must not grudge their rejoicings, Susan. It is not every year that there is a Waterloo to celebrate.

MISS SUSAN. I was not thinking of that. I was thinking that he is to be at the ball to-night; and we have not seen him for ten years.

PHOEBE (_calmly_). Yes, ten years. We shall be glad to welcome our old friend back, Susan. I am going in to your room now to take the Latin cla.s.s.

(_A soldier with a girl pa.s.ses--a yokel follows angrily._)

MISS SUSAN. Oh, that weary Latin, I wish I had the whipping of the man who invented it.

(_She returns to her room, and the sound of the music dies away_. MISS PHOEBE, _who is not a very accomplished cla.s.sical scholar, is taking a final peep at the declensions when_ MISS SUSAN _reappears excitedly._)

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