on the table before him a little statue with wings and no head.
"I'll bet 'e's busted the 'ead off that orniment one time in his rage," whispered May. "Schoolmasters is all evil dispositioned."
"Oo, May, I think he's lovely. Look at his white hands, and his long pointed thumb—"
"Ho!" snorted May. "Admirin' of a man's thumb! I never heard the like."
They both shook with smothered laughter.
"I don't care," persisted Delight. "I think he's lovely. That black lock like the letter J on his forehead. I wish he'd come out into the rain with us. It'd do him good."
"Ask him, then. Run in and tap on the pane and say—'Come along out, schoolmaster!' I dare you."
In the mild darkness of the night, in the intimate rain, anything might be dared. The blood in their veins was filled with unnamed desire. May pushed Delight towards the window. The schoolmaster threw his arms above his head, stretching himself, tired to death of the pile of Easter examination papers before him. He opened his mouth wide in a great yawn.
Delight darted across the strip of drenched grass to the window. She struck her palm sharply on the pane.
"Coom along out, schoolmaster!" she shouted.
The man sprang to his feet. Some young devil of a boy trying to torment him. Wouldn't he cuff him! He did not go to the window but darted through the hall and out the front door. May ran squealing down the dark street, but Delight stood motionless, her long dark eyes peering out of the night at him.
"Why did you do that, girl?" he asked sternly. She imagined a cane behind his back.
