Mr. Strachey left the field of
personal narration and went on to the moral aspects of the affair,
Laura ceased to be gripped by him, and turned anew to study the pale,
dogged face [P.122] of the accused, though she had to crane her neck to
do it. Before such a stony mask as this, she was driven to imagine what
must be going on behind it; and, while thus engrossed, she felt her arm
angrily tweaked. It was Tilly.

"You ARE a beast to stare like that!"

"I'm not staring."

She turned her eyes away at once, more than half believing her own
words; and then, for some seconds, she tried to do what was expected of
her: to feel a decent unconcern. At her back, Bertha's purry crying
went steadily on. What on earth did she cry for? She had certainly not
heard a word Mr. Strachey said. Laura fidgeted in her seat, and stole a
sideglance at Tilly's profile. She could not, really could not miss the
last scene of all, when, in masterly fashion, the Principal was
gathering the threads together. And so, feeling rather like "Peeping
Tom", she cautiously raised her eyes again, and this time managed to
use them without turning her head.

All other eyes were still charitably lowered. Several girls were crying
now, but without a sound. And, as the last, awful moments drew near,
even Bertha was hushed, and of all the odd hundreds of throats not one
dared to cough. Laura's heart began to palpitate, for she felt the
approach of the final climax, Mr. Strachey's periods growing ever
slower and more massive.

When, after a burst of eloquence which, the child felt, would not have
shamed a Bishop, the Principal drew himself up to his full height, and,
with uplifted arm, thundered forth: "Herewith, Miss Annie Johns, I
publicly expel you from the school! Leave it, now, this moment, and
never darken its doors again!"--when this happened, Laura was shot
through by an ecstatic quiver, such as she had felt once only in her
life before; and that was when a beautiful, golden-haired Hamlet, who
had held a Ballarat theatre entranced for a whole evening, fell dead by
Laertes' sword, to the rousing plaudits of the house. Breathing
unevenly, she watched, lynx-eyed, every inch of Annie Johns' progress:
watched her pick up her books, edge out of her seat and sidle through
the rows of desks; watched her walk to the door with short jerky
movements, mount the two steps that led to it, fumble with the handle,
turn it, and vanish from sight; and when it was all o