Miss Murcheson was thinking about something nice."
"Or somebody."
"Oh, Doris, you are awful!"
They all giggled, and glanced apprehensively across at her.
She wondered why she was not more offended by them.
"As a matter of fact,"she enlightened them,"that was because of daffodils. It just illustrates my point, curiously enough."
They were still absorbed.
"Oh, Miss Murcheson!"
"Miss Murcheson!"
"When was it taken?"
"Last Easter holidays. Nearly a year ago. At Seabrooke. By a friend of mine."
"Do-oo give me one!"
"And me?"
''I'm afraid that's the only print I've got; and that's mother's."
"Were there more?"
"Yes, various people took them. You see, I haven't faced a real camera for years, so when I got these snaps they were scrambled for by people who'd been asking me for photos."
"People?"She was rising visibly in their estimation.
"Oh yes. Friends."
"Why daffodils?"reverted Rosemary.
"Somebody had just given me a great big bunch."She was impressed by their interest."I wonder if daffodils will ever make any of you look like that."
"It all depends, you see,"said Millicent, astutely."Nobody has ever given us any. If they did perhaps"
''Really?"said Miss Murcheson, with innocent concern."Take all those, if they would really inspire you! No, dears, I'd like you to."
She gathered the daffodils together and lifted them, dripping, from the vase.
The girls retreated.
"Oh no, really, not your daffodils-
"We don't mean"
"Not your daffodils. Miss Murcheson. It wasn't that a bit."
Evidently a false move on her part. She was bewildered by them; could not fathom the depths of their cinema-bred romanticism.
Doris had put away the photograph and stood with her back to the others, fingering the ornaments on the chimney-piece.
""There are lots of things,"she said rapidly, "that you only feel because of people. That's the only reason things are there for, I think. You wouldn't notice them otherwise, or
care about them. It's only sort of"
She stopped. Her ears glowed crimson underneath her hat.
"Association,"they sighed, ponderously.
"That's exactly what's the matter,"cried Miss Murcheson."We've got all the nice, fresh, independent, outside things so smeared over with our sentimentalities and prejudices and—associations—that we can't see them anyhow but as part of ourselves. That's how you're—we're missing things and spoiling
things for ourselves. You—we don't seem able to discover.'"
"Life,"said Doris sententiously,"is a very big adventure. Of course we all see that.''
The other two looked at her quickly. All three became suddenly hostile. She was encouraging them to outrage the decencies of conversation. It was bad form, this flagrant discussion of subjects only for their most secret and fervid whisperings.
To her, they were still unaccountable. She had not wished to probe.
"I don't think that's what I meant,"she said a little flatly."Of course your lives will be full of interesting things, and those will be your own affairs. Only, if I could be able, I'm always trying, to make you care about the little fine things you might pass over, that have such big roots underground.
"I should like you to be as happy as I've been, and as I'm going to be,"she said impulsively."I should love to watch you after you've left my form, going up and up the school, and getting bigger, and then, when you've left, going straight and clearly to the essential things."
The tassel of the bHnd cord tapped against the window-sill, through the rustling curtains they looked out on to the road.
They had awaited a disclosure intimate and personal. The donor of those last year's daffodils had taken form, portentous in their minds. But she had told them nothing, given them the stone of her abstract, colourless idealism while they sat there, open-mouthed for sentimental bread.
"Won't you stay to tea?"she asked."Oh, do. We'll picnic; boil the kettle on the gas-ring, and eat sticky buns—I've got a bag of sticky buns. We'll have
"Or somebody."
"Oh, Doris, you are awful!"
They all giggled, and glanced apprehensively across at her.
She wondered why she was not more offended by them.
"As a matter of fact,"she enlightened them,"that was because of daffodils. It just illustrates my point, curiously enough."
They were still absorbed.
"Oh, Miss Murcheson!"
"Miss Murcheson!"
"When was it taken?"
"Last Easter holidays. Nearly a year ago. At Seabrooke. By a friend of mine."
"Do-oo give me one!"
"And me?"
''I'm afraid that's the only print I've got; and that's mother's."
"Were there more?"
"Yes, various people took them. You see, I haven't faced a real camera for years, so when I got these snaps they were scrambled for by people who'd been asking me for photos."
"People?"She was rising visibly in their estimation.
"Oh yes. Friends."
"Why daffodils?"reverted Rosemary.
"Somebody had just given me a great big bunch."She was impressed by their interest."I wonder if daffodils will ever make any of you look like that."
"It all depends, you see,"said Millicent, astutely."Nobody has ever given us any. If they did perhaps"
''Really?"said Miss Murcheson, with innocent concern."Take all those, if they would really inspire you! No, dears, I'd like you to."
She gathered the daffodils together and lifted them, dripping, from the vase.
The girls retreated.
"Oh no, really, not your daffodils-
"We don't mean"
"Not your daffodils. Miss Murcheson. It wasn't that a bit."
Evidently a false move on her part. She was bewildered by them; could not fathom the depths of their cinema-bred romanticism.
Doris had put away the photograph and stood with her back to the others, fingering the ornaments on the chimney-piece.
""There are lots of things,"she said rapidly, "that you only feel because of people. That's the only reason things are there for, I think. You wouldn't notice them otherwise, or
care about them. It's only sort of"
She stopped. Her ears glowed crimson underneath her hat.
"Association,"they sighed, ponderously.
"That's exactly what's the matter,"cried Miss Murcheson."We've got all the nice, fresh, independent, outside things so smeared over with our sentimentalities and prejudices and—associations—that we can't see them anyhow but as part of ourselves. That's how you're—we're missing things and spoiling
things for ourselves. You—we don't seem able to discover.'"
"Life,"said Doris sententiously,"is a very big adventure. Of course we all see that.''
The other two looked at her quickly. All three became suddenly hostile. She was encouraging them to outrage the decencies of conversation. It was bad form, this flagrant discussion of subjects only for their most secret and fervid whisperings.
To her, they were still unaccountable. She had not wished to probe.
"I don't think that's what I meant,"she said a little flatly."Of course your lives will be full of interesting things, and those will be your own affairs. Only, if I could be able, I'm always trying, to make you care about the little fine things you might pass over, that have such big roots underground.
"I should like you to be as happy as I've been, and as I'm going to be,"she said impulsively."I should love to watch you after you've left my form, going up and up the school, and getting bigger, and then, when you've left, going straight and clearly to the essential things."
The tassel of the bHnd cord tapped against the window-sill, through the rustling curtains they looked out on to the road.
They had awaited a disclosure intimate and personal. The donor of those last year's daffodils had taken form, portentous in their minds. But she had told them nothing, given them the stone of her abstract, colourless idealism while they sat there, open-mouthed for sentimental bread.
"Won't you stay to tea?"she asked."Oh, do. We'll picnic; boil the kettle on the gas-ring, and eat sticky buns—I've got a bag of sticky buns. We'll have
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