Margot (keenly):  “But, mademoiselle, discussion is the only way of making lessons interesting.”

Mlle. De Mennecy (with violence):  “Voulez-vous vous taire?”

To talk to a girl of nearly seventeen in this way was so unintelligent that I made up my mind I would waste neither time nor affection on her.

None of the girls were particularly clever, but we all liked each other and for the first time—­and I may safely say the last—­I was looked upon as a kind of heroine.  It came about in this way:  Mlle. de Mennecy was never wrong.  To quote Miss Fowler’s admirable saying a propos of her father, “She always let us have her own way.”  If the bottle of ink was upset, or the back of a book burst, she never waited to find out who had done it, but in a torrent of words crashed into the first girl she suspected, her face becoming a silly mauve and her bust heaving with passion.  This made me so indignant that, one day when the ink was spilt and Mlle. de Mennecy as usual scolded the wrong girl, I determined I would stand it no longer.  Meeting the victim of Mademoiselle’s temper in the passage, I said to her: 

“But why didn’t you say you hadn’t done it, ass!”

Girl (catching her sob):  “What was the good!  She never listens; and I would only have had to tell her who really spilt the ink.”

This did seem a little awkward, so I said to her: 

“That would never have done!  Very well, then, I will go and put the thing right for you, but tell the girls they must back me.  She’s a senseless woman and I can’t think why you are all so frightened of her.”

Girl:  “It’s all very well for you!  Madmozell is a howling snob, you should have heard her on you before you came!  She said your father would very likely be made a peer and your sister Laura marry Sir Charles Dilke.” (The thought of this overrated man marrying Laura was almost more than I could bear, but curiosity kept me silent, and she continued.) “You see, she is far nicer to you than to us, because she is afraid you may leave her.”

Not having thought of this before, I said: 

“Is that really true?  What a horrible woman!  Well, I had better go and square it up; but will you all back me?  Now don’t go fretting on and making yourself miserable.”

Girl:  “I don’t so much mind what you call her flux-de-bouche scolding, but, when she flounced out of the room, she said I was not to go home this Saturday.”

Margot:  “Oh, that’ll be all right.  Just you go off.” (Exit girl, drying her eyes.)

It had never occurred to me that Mlle. de Mennecy was a snob:  this knowledge was a great weapon in my hands and I determined upon my plan of action.  I hunted about in my room till I found one of my linen overalls, heavily stained with dolly dyes.  After putting it on, I went and knocked at Mlle. de Mennecy’s door and opening it said: