E. Reports ran of the
exceptionally "catchy" nature of Dr Pughson's questions; and Laura's
prayer, the night before, was more like a threat than a supplication.
The class had only just entered the Headmaster's room on the eventful
morning, and begun to choose desks, when there came a summons to Laura
to take a music-lesson. This was outside consideration, and Dr Pughson
made short work of the intruder--a red-haired little girl, who blushed
meekly and unbecomingly, and withdrew. Here, however, Laura rose and
declared that, under these circumstances, some explanation was due to
Monsieur Boehmer, the music-master, to-day's lesson being in fact a
rehearsal for the annual concert.

Dr Pughson raised his red-rimmed eyes from his desk and looked very
fierce.

"Tch, tch, tch!" he snapped, in the genial Irish fashion that made him
dreaded and adored. "How like a woman that is! Playing at concerts when
she can't add two and two together!--Your arithmetic paper's fit for
PUNCH, Miss Rambotham."

The smile he looked for went round.

"Have you seen the questions?--no? Well, give them here then. You've
got to go, I suppose, or we might deprive the concert of your shining
light.--Hurry back, now. Stir your stumps!"

But this Laura had no intention of doing. In handling the printed slip,
her lagging eye had caught the last and most vital question: "Give a
full account of Oliver Cromwell's Foreign Policy."--And she did not
know it! She dragged out her interview with the music-master, put
questions wide of the point, insisted on lingering till he had arranged
another hour for the postponed rehearsal; and, as she walked, as she
talked, as she listened to Monsieur Boehmer's ridiculous English, she
strove in vain to recall jot or tittle of Oliver's relations to foreign
powers.--Oh, for just a peep at the particular page of Green! For, if
once she got her cue, she believed she could go on.

The dining-hall was empty when she went through it on her way back to
the classroom: her history looked lovingly at her from its place on the
shelf. But she did not dare to go over to it, take it out, and turn up
the passage: that was too risky. What she did do, however, when she had
almost reached the door, was to dash back, pull out a synopsis--[P.262]
a slender, medium-sized volume--and hastily and clumsily button this
inside the bodice of her dress. The square, board-like appearance it
gave her figure, where it projected beyond the sides of her