“what are you doing?”

He lifted his face, the sore-rimmed eyes half smiling. There was something intrinsically indecent about him. Ursula shrank away.

“Nothing,” he replied, feeling a triumph.

“What are you doing?” she repeated, her heart-beat suffocating her.

“Nothing,” replied the boy, insolently, aggrieved, comic.

“If I speak to you again, you must go down to Mr.

Harby,” she said.

But this boy was a match even for Mr. Harby. He was so persistent, so cringing, and flexible, he howled so when he was hurt, that the master hated more the teacher who sent him