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 to the daffodils, from the daffodils to the open, red-scored exercise books.

"Yes," she said, "your writings, I daresay. Do you recognise them? I was correcting 'Daffodils' and they made me dreary—sit down, won't you?—dreary. I wonder if any of you have ever used your senses; smelt, or seen things Oh, do sit down!"

She seemed to be shouting into a forest of thick bodies. They seated themselves along the edge of an ottoman in a bewildered row; this travestied their position in the class-room and made her feel, facing them, terribly official and instructive. She tried to shake this off.

"It's cruel, isn't it, to lie in wait for you like this and pull you in and lecture you about what you don't feel about daffodils!"

Her nervous laughter tinkled out into silence.

"It was a beastly subject," said someone, heavily.

"Beastly? Oh, Mill—Rosemary, have you never seen a daffodil?"

They giggled.

"No, but looked at one?" Her earnestness swept aside her embarrassment. "Not