Miss Huntley (privately known to the Form as “Bunty”) was a clever, but rather remorseless teacher.  She had been on the staff since the opening of the school two years before, and she was determined at all costs to maintain the high standard inaugurated at its foundation.  She was herself the product of High School education, and knew to the last scruple how much to require from girls in V.a.  To those who appeared to be really trying their best she was ready to give intelligent help, but she had no mercy for slackers.  She was possessed of a certain amount of dry humor, greatly appreciated by the form en bloc, though each quaked privately lest, through some unlucky slip, she might find herself the object of the smart but withering satires.  Despite her strictness, “Bunty” was popular.  She was an admirable tennis player, and a formidable champion in a match “Mistresses v. Girls.”  Her strong personality fascinated Winona, who would have done much to gain her approval.  So far, however, she was entirely on Miss Huntley’s black list.

Matters came to a crisis over a difficult bit of Vergil.  Latin was, next to mathematics, the most painfully wobbling of Winona’s shaky subjects.  She had puzzled in vain over this particular piece of translation.  The words, indeed, she had found in the dictionary, but she could not twist them into sense.

“Old Vergil’s utterly stumped me to-day!” she mourned to Garnet, as they met in the dressing-room before nine o’clock.  “If Bunty puts me to construe anywhere on page 21, I’m a gone coon.  I’m feeling in a blue funk, I can tell you.”

“Poor old bluebottle!  Don’t wrinkle up your forehead like that—­you’re making permanent lines!  It’s a bad trick, and just spoils you.”

“I can’t help it when I’m worried!”

“Then don’t worry.”

“Oh, it’s easy enough for you; you don’t have to receive the vials of Bunty’s scorn.”

Winona hoped against hope that the difficult page might fall to somebody else’s turn.  Miss Huntley took no particular order, but selected girls at random to construe the lesson.  In a Form of twenty it was possible not to be chosen at all.  Winona kept very quiet, so as not to attract the mistress’ attention.  Marjorie Kemp and Olave Parry had already translated half of the fatal page, with tolerable credit.  Miss Huntley’s eye was wandering in the direction of Irene Mills.  Winona dared to breathe.  Then, alas! alas!  Some unlucky star caused the mistress to look back towards the middle of the room.  In a spasm of nervousness, Winona jerked her elbow, and away went her pencil-box, clattering on to the floor, and dispersing its collection of pens, pencils, nibs and other treasures beneath the neighboring desks.  There was a dead silence, and the culprit was instantly the center of attention.

“A clumsy thing to do!  Leave those things where they are!  You can pick them up after the lesson,” observed Miss Huntley grimly.  “Go on now with the translation.”