“Dam made a fathe at me,” whimpered the smitten one.

“Say ‘made a grimace’ not ‘made a face,’” corrected Miss Smellie.  “Only God can make faces.”

Dam exploded.

“At what are you laughing, Damocles?” she asked sternly.

“Nothing, Miss Smellie.  What you said sounded rather funny and a little irrevilent or is it irrembrant?”

“Damocles!  Should I be likely to say anything Irreverent?  Should I ever dream of Irreverence?  What can you mean?  And never let me see you make faces again.”

“I didn’t let you see me, Miss Smellie, and only God can make faces—­”

“Leave the room at once, Sir, I shall report your impudence to your great-uncle,” hissed Miss Smellie, rising in wrath—­and the bad abandoned boy had attained his object.  Detention in the nursery for a Sunday afternoon was no part of his programme.

Most unobtrusively Lucille faded away also.

“Isn’t she a hopeless beast,” murmured she as the door closed.

“Utter rotter,” admitted the boy.  “Let’s slope out into the garden and dig some worms for bait.”

“Yes,” agreed Lucille, and added, “Parse Smellie,” whereupon, with one voice and heart and purpose the twain broke into a paean, not of praise—­a kind of tribal lay, and chanted:—­

“Smellie—­Very common noun, absurd person, singular back number, tutor gender, objectionable case governed by the word I,” and so da capo.

And yet the poor lady strove to do her duty in that station of life in which it had pleased Providence (or a drunken father) to place her—­and to make the children “genteel”.  Had she striven to win their love instead, her ministrations might have had some effect (other than infinite irritation and bitter dislike).

She was the Compleat Governess, on paper, and all that a person entrusted with the training of young children should not be, in reality.  She had innumerable and admirable testimonials from various employers of what she termed “aristocratic standing”; endless certificates that testified unto her successful struggles in Music, Drawing, Needlework, German, French, Calisthenics, Caligraphy, and other mysteries, including the more decorous Sciences (against Physiology, Anatomy, Zoology, Biology, and Hygiene she set her face as subjects apt to be, at times, improper), and an appearance and manner themselves irrefragible proofs of the highest moral virtue.

She also had the warm and unanimous witness of the children at Monksmead that she was a Beast.

To those who frankly realize with open eyes that the student of life must occasionally encounter indelicacies upon the pleasant path of research, it may be revealed, in confidence, that they alluded to Miss Smellie as “Sniffy” when not, under extreme provocation, as “Stinker”.

She taught them many things and, prominently, Deceit, Hate, and an utter dislike of her God and her Religion—­a most disastrous pair.