Miss Cursiter hesitated, warned by something in the aspect of the tiny woman who had been a thorn in her side so long.  Somehow, for this occasion, the most incompetent, most insignificant member of her staff had contrived to clothe herself with a certain nobility.  She was undeniably the more dignified of the two.

The Head, usually so eloquent at great moments, found actual difficulty in getting to the end of her next sentence.

“What I was thinking of—­really again entirely for your own sake—­was whether it would not be better for you to take a little longer holiday.  I do feel in your case the imperative necessity for rest.  Indeed if you found that you wished to retire at the end of the holidays—­of course receiving your salary for the term—­”

Try as she would to speak as though she were conferring a benefit, the Head had the unmistakable air of asking a favour from her subordinate, of imploring her help in a delicate situation, of putting it to her honour.

Miss Quincey’s honour was more than equal to the demand made on it.  She had sunk so low in her own eyes lately that she was glad to gain some little foothold for her poor pride.  She faced Miss Cursiter bravely with her innocent dim eyes as she answered:  “I am ready to go, Miss Cursiter, whenever it is most convenient to you; but I cannot think of taking payment for work I have not done.”

“My dear Miss Quincey, the rule is always a term’s notice—­or if—­if any other arrangement is agreed upon, a term’s salary.  There can be no question—­you must really allow me—­”

There Miss Cursiter’s address failed her and her voice faltered.  She had extracted the thorn; but it had worked its way deeper than she knew, and the operation was a painful one.  A few compliments on the part of the Head, and the hope that St. Sidwell’s would not lose sight of Miss Quincey altogether, and the interview was closed.

It was understood by the end of the morning that Miss Quincey had sent in her resignation.  The news spread from class to class—­“Miss Quincey is going”—­and was received by pupils and teachers with cries of incredulity.  After all, Miss Quincey belonged to St. Sidwell’s; she was part and parcel of the place; her blood and bones had been built into its very walls, and her removal was not to be contemplated without dismay.  Why, what would a procession be like without Miss Quincey to enliven it?

And so, as she went her last round, a score of hands that had never clasped hers in friendship were stretched out over the desks in a wild leave-taking; three girls had tears in their eyes; one, more emotional than the rest, sobbed audibly without shame.  The staff were unanimous in their sympathy and regret.  Rhoda withdrew hastily from the painful scene.  Only the Mad Hatter in her corner made no sign.  She seemed to take the news of Miss Quincey’s departure with a resigned philosophy.

“Well, little Classical Mistress,” said Miss Quincey, “we must say good-bye.  You know I’m going.”