He wished her matric. in hell.

“And how much are you qualified to earn by your matric.?” he asked, jeering.

“Fifty pounds a year,” she said.

He was silent, his power taken out of his hand.

He had always hugged a secret pride in the fact that his daughters need not go out to work. With his wife's money and his own they had four hundred a year. They could draw on the capital if need be later on. He was not afraid for his old age. His daughters might be ladies.

Fifty pounds a year was a pound a week — which was enough for her to live on independently.

“And what sort of a teacher do you think you'd make? You haven't the