prompt:
Chapter: <CHAPTER>
8. THE VOYAGE.

The Picton boat was due to leave at half-past eleven. It was a beautiful
night, mild, starry, only when they got out of the cab and started to
walk down the Old Wharf that jutted out into the harbour, a faint wind
blowing off the water ruffled under Fenella's hat, and she put up her
hand to keep it on. It was dark on the Old Wharf, very dark; the wool
sheds, the cattle trucks, the cranes standing up so high, the little
squat railway engine, all seemed carved out of solid darkness. Here and
there on a rounded wood-pile, that was like the stalk of a huge black
mushroom, there hung a lantern, but it seemed afraid to unfurl its
timid, quivering light in all that blackness; it burned softly, as if
for itself.

Fenella's father pushed on with quick, nervous strides. Beside him her
grandma bustled along in her crackling black ulster; they went so fast
that she had now and again to give an undignified little skip to keep up
with them. As well as her luggage strapped into a neat sausage, Fenella
carried clasped to her her grandma's umbrella, and the handle, which was
a swan's head, kept giving her shoulder a sharp little peck as if it too
wanted her to hurry... Men, their caps pulled down, their collars turned
up, swung by; a few women all muffled scurried along; and one tiny boy,
only his little black arms and legs showing out of a white woolly shawl,
was jerked along angrily between his father and mother; he looked like a
baby fly that had fallen into the cream.

Then suddenly, so suddenly that Fenella and her grandma both leapt,
there sounded from behind the largest wool shed, that had a trail of
smoke hanging over it, "Mia-oo-oo-O-O!"

"First whistle," said her father briefly, and at that moment they came
in sight of the Picton boat. Lying beside the dark wharf, all strung,
all beaded with round golden lights, the Picton boat looked as if she
was more ready to sail among stars than out into the cold sea. People
pressed along the gangway. First went her grandma, then her father, then
Fenella. There was a high step down on to the deck, and an old sailor in
a jersey standing by gave her his dry, hard hand. They were there; they
stepped out of the way of the hurrying people, and standing under
a little iron stairway that led to the upper deck they began to say
good-bye.

"There, mother, there's your luggage!" said Fenella's father, giving
grandma another strapped-up sausage.

"Thank you, Frank."

"And you've got your cabin tickets safe?"

"Yes, dear."

"And your other tickets?"

Grandma felt for them inside her glove and showed him the tips.

"That's right."

He sounded stern, but Fenella, eagerly watching him, saw that he looked
tired and sad. "Mia-oo-oo-O-O!" The second whistle blared just above
their heads, and a voice like a cry shouted, "Any more for the gangway?"

"You'll give my love to father," Fenella saw her father's lips say. And
her grandma, very agitated, answered, "Of course I will, dear. Go now.
You'll be left. Go now, Frank. Go now."

"It's all right, mother. I've got another three minutes." To her
surprise Fenella saw her father take off his hat. He clasped grandma in
his arms and pressed her to him. "God bless you, mother!" she heard him
say.

And grandma put her hand, with the black thread glove that was worn
through on her ring finger, against his cheek, and she sobbed, "God
bless you, my own brave son!"

This was so awful that Fenella quickly turned her back on them,
swallowed once, twice, and frowned terribly at a little green star on a
mast head. But she had to turn round again; her father was going.

"Good-bye, Fenella. Be a good girl." His cold, wet moustache brushed her
cheek. But Fenella caught hold of the lapels of his coat.

"How long am I going to stay?" she whispered anxiously. He wouldn't look
at her. He shook her off gently, and gently said, "We'll see about that.
Here! Where's your hand?" He pressed something into her palm. "Here's a
shilling in case you should need it."

A shilling! She must be going away for ever! "Father!" cried Fenella.
But he was gone. He was the last off the ship. The sailors put their
shoulders to the gangway. A huge coil of dark rope went flying through
the air and fell "thump" on the wharf. A bell rang; a whistle shrilled.
Silently the dark wharf began to slip, to slide, to edge away from them.
Now there was a rush of water between. Fenella strained to see with all
her might. "Was that father turning round?"--or waving?--or standing
alone?--or walking off by himself? The strip of water grew broader,
darker. Now the Picton boat began to swing round steady, pointing out to
sea. It was no good looking any longer. There was nothing to be seen but
a few lights, the face of the town clock hanging in the air, and more
lights, little patches of them, on the dark hills.

The freshening wind tugged at Fenella's skirts; she went back to her
grandma. To her relief grandma seemed no longer sad. She had put the
two sausages of luggage one on top of the other, and she was sitting
on them, her hands folded, her head a little on one side. There was an
intent, bright look on her face. Then Fenella saw that her lips were
moving and guessed that she was praying. But the old woman gave her a
bright nod as if to say the prayer was nearly over. She unclasped
her hands, sighed, clasped them again, bent forward, and at last gave
herself a soft shake.

"And now, child," she said, fingering the bow of her bonnet-strings, "I
think we ought to see about our cabins. Keep close to me, and mind you
don't slip."

"Yes, grandma!"

"And be careful the umbrellas aren't caught in the stair rail. I saw a
beautiful umbrella broken in half like that on my way over."

"Yes, grandma."

Dark figures of men lounged against the rails. In the glow of
their pipes a nose shone out, or the peak of a cap, or a pair of
surprised-looking eyebrows. Fenella glanced up. High in the air, a
little figure, his hands thrust in his short jacket pockets, stood
staring out to sea. The ship rocked ever so little, and she thought the
stars rocked too. And now a pale steward in a linen coat, holding a
tray high in the palm of his hand, stepped out of a lighted doorway and
skimmed past them. They went through that doorway. Carefully over the
high brass-bound step on to the rubber mat and then down such a terribly
steep flight of stairs that grandma had to put both feet on each step,
and Fenella clutched the clammy brass rail and forgot all about the
swan-necked umbrella.

At the bottom grandma stopped; Fenella was rather afraid she was going
to pray again. But no, it was only to get out the cabin tickets. They
were in the saloon. It was glaring bright and stifling; the air smelled
of paint and burnt chop-bones and indiarubber. Fenella wished her
grandma would go on, but the old woman was not to be hurried. An immense
basket of ham sandwiches caught her eye. She went up to them and touched
the top one delicately with her finger.

"How much are the sandwiches?" she asked.

"Tuppence!" bawled a rude steward, slamming down a knife and fork.

Grandma could hardly believe it.

"Twopence each?" she asked.

"That's right," said the steward, and he winked at his companion.

Grandma made a small, astonished face. Then she whispered primly to
Fenella. "What wickedness!" And they sailed out at the further door
and along a passage that had cabins on either side. Such a very nice
stewardess came to meet them. She was dressed all in blue, and her
collar and cuffs were fastened with large brass buttons. She seemed to
know grandma well.

"Well, Mrs. Crane," said she, unlocking their washstand. "We've got you
back again. It's not often you give yourself a cabin."

"No," said grandma. "But this time my dear son's thoughtfulness--"

"I hope--" began the stewardess. Then she turned round and took a long,
mournful look at grandma's blackness and at Fenella's black coat and
skirt, black blouse, and hat with a crape rose.

Grandma nodded. "It was God's will," said she.

The stewardess shut her lips and, taking a deep breath, she seemed to
expand.

"What I always say is," she said, as though it was her own discovery,
"sooner or later each of us has to go, and that's a certingty." She
paused. "Now, can I bring you anything, Mrs Crane? A cup of tea? I know
it's no good offering you a little something to keep the cold out."

Grandma shook her head. "Nothing, thank you. We've got a few wine
biscuits, and Fenella has a very nice banana."

"Then I'll give you a look later on," said the stewardess, and she went
out, shutting the door.

What a very small cabin it was! It was like being shut up in a box with
grandma. The dark round eye above the washstand gleamed at them dully.
Fenella felt shy. She stood against the door, still clasping her luggage
and the umbrella. Were they going to get undressed in here? Already her
grandma had taken off her bonnet, and, rolling up the strings, she fixed
each with a pin to the lining before she hung the bonnet up. Her white
hair shone like silk; the little bun at the back was covered with a
black net. Fenella hardly ever saw her grandma with her head uncovered;
she looked strange.

"I shall put on the woollen fascinator your dear mother crocheted for
me," said grandma, and, unstrapping the sausage, she took it out and
wound it round her head; the fringe of grey bobbles danced at her
eyebrows as she smiled tenderly and mournfully at Fenella. Then
she undid her bodice, and something under that, and something else
underneath that. Then there seemed a short, sharp tussle, and grandma
flushed faintly. Snip! Snap! She had undone her stays. She breathed a
sigh of relief, and sitting on the plush couch, she slowly and carefully
pulled off her elastic-sided boots and stood them side by side.

By the time Fenella had taken off her coat and skirt and put on her
flannel dressing-gown grandma was quite ready.

"Must I take off my boots, grandma? They're lace."

Grandma gave them a moment's deep consideration. "You'd feel a great
deal more comfortable if you did, child," said she. She kissed Fenella.
"Don't forget to say your prayers. Our dear Lord is with us when we
are at sea even more than when we are on dry land. And because I am an
experienced traveller," said grandma briskly, "I shall take the upper
berth."

"But, grandma, however will you get up there?"

Three little spider-like steps were all Fenella saw. The old woman gave
a small silent laugh before she mounted them nimbly, and she peered over
the high bunk at the astonished Fenella.

"You didn't think your grandma could do that, did you?" said she. And as
she sank back Fenella heard her light laugh again.

The hard square of brown soap would not lather, and the water in the
bottle was like a kind of blue jelly. How hard it was, too, to turn down
those stiff sheets; you simply had to tear your way in. If everything
had been different, Fenella might have got the giggles... At last she
was inside, and while she lay there panting, there sounded from above
a long, soft whispering, as though some one was gently, gently rustling
among tissue paper to find something. It was grandma saying her
prayers...

A long time passed. Then the stewardess came in; she trod softly and
leaned her hand on grandma's bunk.

"We're just entering the Straits," she said.

"Oh!"

"It's a fine night, but we're rather empty. We may pitch a little."

And indeed at that moment the Picton Boat rose and rose and hung in the
air just long enough to give a shiver before she swung down again, and
there was the sound of heavy water slapping against her sides. Fenella
remembered she had left the swan-necked umbrella standing up on the
little couch. If it fell over, would it break? But grandma remembered
too, at the same time.

"I wonder if you'd mind, stewardess, laying down my umbrella," she
whispered.

"Not at all, Mrs. Crane." And the stewardess, coming back to grandma,
breathed, "Your little granddaughter's in such a beautiful sleep."

"God be praised for that!" said grandma.

"Poor little motherless mite!" said the stewardess. And grandma was
still telling the stewardess all about what happened when Fenella fell
asleep.

But she hadn't been asleep long enough to dream before she woke up again
to see something waving in the air above her head. What was it? What
could it be? It was a small grey foot. Now another joined it. They
seemed to be feeling about for something; there came a sigh.

"I'm awake, grandma," said Fenella.

"Oh, dear, am I near the ladder?" asked grandma. "I thought it was this
end."

"No, grandma, it's the other. I'll put your foot on it. Are we there?"
asked Fenella.

"In the harbour," said grandma. "We must get up, child. You'd better
have a biscuit to steady yourself before you move."

But Fenella had hopped out of her bunk. The lamp was still burning,
but night was over, and it was cold. Peering through that round eye she
could see far off some rocks. Now they were scattered over with foam;
now a gull flipped by; and now there came a long piece of real land.

"It's land, grandma," said Fenella, wonderingly, as though they had been
at sea for weeks together. She hugged herself; she stood on one leg and
rubbed it with the toes of the other foot; she was trembling. Oh, it had
all been so sad lately. Was it going to change? But all her grandma
said was, "Make haste, child. I should leave your nice banana for
the stewardess as you haven't eaten it." And Fenella put on her black
clothes again and a button sprang off one of her gloves and rolled to
where she couldn't reach it. They went up on deck.

But if it had been cold in the cabin, on deck it was like ice. The sun
was not up yet, but the stars were dim, and the cold pale sky was the
same colour as the cold pale sea. On the land a white mist rose and
fell. Now they could see quite plainly dark bush. Even the shapes of the
umbrella ferns showed, and those strange silvery withered trees that are
like skeletons... Now they could see the landing-stage and some little
houses, pale too, clustered together, like shells on the lid of a box.
The other passengers tramped up and down, but more slowly than they had
the night before, and they looked gloomy.

And now the landing-stage came out to meet them. Slowly it swam towards
the Picton boat, and a man holding a coil of rope, and a cart with a
small drooping horse and another man sitting on the step, came too.

"It's Mr. Penreddy, Fenella, come for us," said grandma. She sounded
pleased. Her white waxen cheeks were blue with cold, her chin trembled,
and she had to keep wiping her eyes and her little pink nose.

"You've got my--"

"Yes, grandma." Fenella showed it to her.

The rope came flying through the air, and "smack" it fell on to the
deck. The gangway was lowered. Again Fenella followed her grandma on to
the wharf over to the little cart, and a moment later they were bowling
away. The hooves of the little horse drummed over the wooden piles, then
sank softly into the sandy road. Not a soul was to be seen; there was
not even a feather of smoke. The mist rose and fell and the sea still
sounded asleep as slowly it turned on the beach.

"I seen Mr. Crane yestiddy," said Mr. Penreddy. "He looked himself then.
Missus knocked him up a batch of scones last week."

And now the little horse pulled up before one of the shell-like houses.
They got down. Fenella put her hand on the gate, and the big, trembling
dew-drops soaked through her glove-tips. Up a little path of round
white pebbles they went, with drenched sleeping flowers on either side.
Grandma's delicate white picotees were so heavy with dew that they were
fallen, but their sweet smell was part of the cold morning. The blinds
were down in the little house; they mounted the steps on to the veranda.
A pair of old bluchers was on one side of the door, and a large red
watering-can on the other.

"Tut! tut! Your grandpa," said grandma. She turned the handle. Not a
sound. She called, "Walter!" And immediately a deep voice that sounded
half stifled called back, "Is that you, Mary?"

"Wait, dear," said grandma. "Go in there." She pushed Fenella gently
into a small dusky sitting-room.

On the table a white cat, that had been folded up like a camel, rose,
stretched itself, yawned, and then sprang on to the tips of its toes.
Fenella buried one cold little hand in the white, warm fur, and smiled
timidly while she stroked and listened to grandma's gentle voice and the
rolling tones of grandpa.

A door creaked. "Come in, dear." The old woman beckoned, Fenella
followed. There, lying to one side on an immense bed, lay grandpa.
Just his head with a white tuft and his rosy face and long silver beard
showed over the quilt. He was like a very old wide-awake bird.

"Well, my girl!" said grandpa. "Give us a kiss!" Fenella kissed him.
"Ugh!" said grandpa. "Her little nose is as cold as a button. What's
that she's holding? Her grandma's umbrella?"

Fenella smiled again, and crooked the swan neck over the bed-rail. Above
the bed there was a big text in a deep black frame:--

     "Lost!  One Golden Hour
      Set with Sixty Diamond Minutes.
      No Reward Is Offered
      For It Is Gone For Ever!"

"Yer grandma painted that," said grandpa. And he ruffled his white tuft
and looked at Fenella so merrily she almost thought he winked at her.

</CHAPTER>

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Fenella hurried toward the Picton boat with her father and Grandma. The night was mild, the sky starry but Fenella took little joy in it, sensing her Father's unease. Her Grandma's fancy umbrella with the swan head handle was tucked into the luggage Fenella had strapped to her back. The swan head pecked her repeatedly on the shoulder as if it too wanted her to hurry. A whistle on the large boat sounded just as they arrived at the Old Wharf harbor. The Picton boat was beaded with light and Fenella thought it belonged more to the sky than the sea. She followed her family up the gangway and listened as her Father, Frank, asked after their cabin tickets. Fenella was not deceived by his stern tone of voice and was concerned for him; he looked sad and tired. She was surprised; however, when he hugged his mother close and wished her a safe journey and she in turn held his face in her hands and lovingly called him "my own brave son" . Fenella turned away and chocked down her own sadness so they would not see her tears. Fenella's father kissed her cheek and told her to be a good girl but she grabbed his lapels in desperation and asked how long she was going to be away. He would not look at her and shook her off gently, pressing a shilling into her hand. She took that as a bad sign and called after him but he had already turned to leave. The boat was pulling away from the wharf and Fenella could no longer see her father on the dock. She turned to her Grandma who was sitting on their luggage and praying. Fenella waited respectfully for her to finish and then they went below to find their cabin. Her Grandma led the way, having traveled on the Picton boat many times before. They carefully navigated the steep flight of stairs and hallways below deck until they came to their cabin. The stewardess, who knew Grandma, saw their black mourning clothes. Grandma said simply, "It was God's will" and the kind stewardess promised to look in on them later on. The cabin was very small and they undressed quickly and readied themselves for bed. Grandma put on a crocheted headscarf that Fenella's mother had made before she died. Grandma smiled tenderly at Fenella, the headscarf a silent reminder of the grief they shared. Soon they were both ready for bed and Fenella watched in disbelief as her Grandma nimbly climbed into the upper berth. The stewardess came to check on them and warned them that the boat might pitch. The words seemed to bring on the tilting of the boat and the slapping of water at her sides. Fenella worried that the umbrella would fall and break. Thinking along the same lines, Grandma asked the stewardess to lay the swan-neck umbrella flat so it would not be damaged. The stewardess did as she was asked and they spoke about the recent death of Fenella's mother. The stewardess called Fenella a "poor little motherless mite" but she wasn't listening to their chatter and soon drifted off to sleep. The next day dawned early and Fenella watched the harbor appear out of the portside window. She reflected on how sad her life had been after the death of her mother. Now she was traveling with her Grandma to a new life. She hoped her luck would change. Once her Grandma woke, she told Fenella to make haste and they dressed quickly and left the cabin to go up on deck with their luggage. Fenella watched land slowly approach in the distance, the wind like ice against her skin. She could see umbrella ferns and little houses and soon the landing stage came along side of them. "You've got my-" "Yes, grandma" . Mr. Penreddy, a friend of Grandma's was guiding the landing stage closer, an old horse and cart waited onboard. Grandma was pleased to see Mr. Penreddy and as she and Fenella climbed into the cart he said that old Mr. Walter Crane, Grandma's husband, was in good spirits and he had looked in on him the day before. Once ashore, the horse pulled the cart off of the landing stage and toward one of the houses. They got down and Fenella walked up a little a path of round pebbles toward her grandparents' home. Her Grandma opened the front door and called out to her husband who called back in a stifled voice "Is that you, Mary?" . Grandma left Fenella in a side room where a white cat was sleeping. She petted the cat and listened to the voices of her grandparents. Her Grandma returned and Fenella went to see her Grandpa who lay in an immense bed, his rosy face and silver beard showing over the quilt. He happily greeted her and she kissed him hello showing him the swan-head umbrella when he asked for it. Above the bed a needlepoint hung in a black frame with the following text: "Lost! One Golden Hour Set with Sixty Diamond Minutes. No Reward is Offered For It Is GONE FOR EVER" . Grandpa explains that Grandma had made it and then he smiled so merrily at Fenella she thought he might have winked at her.


prompt:
Chapter: <CHAPTER>
9. MISS BRILL.

Although it was so brilliantly fine--the blue sky powdered with gold
and great spots of light like white wine splashed over the Jardins
Publiques--Miss Brill was glad that she had decided on her fur. The air
was motionless, but when you opened your mouth there was just a faint
chill, like a chill from a glass of iced water before you sip, and now
and again a leaf came drifting--from nowhere, from the sky. Miss Brill
put up her hand and touched her fur. Dear little thing! It was nice to
feel it again. She had taken it out of its box that afternoon, shaken
out the moth-powder, given it a good brush, and rubbed the life back
into the dim little eyes. "What has been happening to me?" said the sad
little eyes. Oh, how sweet it was to see them snap at her again from
the red eiderdown!... But the nose, which was of some black composition,
wasn't at all firm. It must have had a knock, somehow. Never mind--a
little dab of black sealing-wax when the time came--when it was
absolutely necessary... Little rogue! Yes, she really felt like that
about it. Little rogue biting its tail just by her left ear. She could
have taken it off and laid it on her lap and stroked it. She felt
a tingling in her hands and arms, but that came from walking, she
supposed. And when she breathed, something light and sad--no, not sad,
exactly--something gentle seemed to move in her bosom.

There were a number of people out this afternoon, far more than last
Sunday. And the band sounded louder and gayer. That was because the
Season had begun. For although the band played all the year round on
Sundays, out of season it was never the same. It was like some one
playing with only the family to listen; it didn't care how it played if
there weren't any strangers present. Wasn't the conductor wearing a new
coat, too? She was sure it was new. He scraped with his foot and flapped
his arms like a rooster about to crow, and the bandsmen sitting in the
green rotunda blew out their cheeks and glared at the music. Now there
came a little "flutey" bit--very pretty!--a little chain of bright
drops. She was sure it would be repeated. It was; she lifted her head
and smiled.

Only two people shared her "special" seat: a fine old man in a velvet
coat, his hands clasped over a huge carved walking-stick, and a big
old woman, sitting upright, with a roll of knitting on her embroidered
apron. They did not speak. This was disappointing, for Miss Brill always
looked forward to the conversation. She had become really quite expert,
she thought, at listening as though she didn't listen, at sitting in
other people's lives just for a minute while they talked round her.

She glanced, sideways, at the old couple. Perhaps they would go soon.
Last Sunday, too, hadn't been as interesting as usual. An Englishman
and his wife, he wearing a dreadful Panama hat and she button boots. And
she'd gone on the whole time about how she ought to wear spectacles;
she knew she needed them; but that it was no good getting any; they'd be
sure to break and they'd never keep on. And he'd been so patient. He'd
suggested everything--gold rims, the kind that curved round your ears,
little pads inside the bridge. No, nothing would please her. "They'll
always be sliding down my nose!" Miss Brill had wanted to shake her.

The old people sat on the bench, still as statues. Never mind, there was
always the crowd to watch. To and fro, in front of the flower-beds and
the band rotunda, the couples and groups paraded, stopped to talk, to
greet, to buy a handful of flowers from the old beggar who had his tray
fixed to the railings. Little children ran among them, swooping and
laughing; little boys with big white silk bows under their chins, little
girls, little French dolls, dressed up in velvet and lace. And sometimes
a tiny staggerer came suddenly rocking into the open from under the
trees, stopped, stared, as suddenly sat down "flop," until its small
high-stepping mother, like a young hen, rushed scolding to its rescue.
Other people sat on the benches and green chairs, but they were
nearly always the same, Sunday after Sunday, and--Miss Brill had often
noticed--there was something funny about nearly all of them. They were
odd, silent, nearly all old, and from the way they stared they looked as
though they'd just come from dark little rooms or even--even cupboards!

Behind the rotunda the slender trees with yellow leaves down drooping,
and through them just a line of sea, and beyond the blue sky with
gold-veined clouds.

Tum-tum-tum tiddle-um! tiddle-um! tum tiddley-um tum ta! blew the band.

Two young girls in red came by and two young soldiers in blue met them,
and they laughed and paired and went off arm-in-arm. Two peasant women
with funny straw hats passed, gravely, leading beautiful smoke-coloured
donkeys. A cold, pale nun hurried by. A beautiful woman came along and
dropped her bunch of violets, and a little boy ran after to hand them to
her, and she took them and threw them away as if they'd been poisoned.
Dear me! Miss Brill didn't know whether to admire that or not! And now
an ermine toque and a gentleman in grey met just in front of her. He
was tall, stiff, dignified, and she was wearing the ermine toque she'd
bought when her hair was yellow. Now everything, her hair, her face,
even her eyes, was the same colour as the shabby ermine, and her hand,
in its cleaned glove, lifted to dab her lips, was a tiny yellowish paw.
Oh, she was so pleased to see him--delighted! She rather thought
they were going to meet that afternoon. She described where she'd
been--everywhere, here, there, along by the sea. The day was so
charming--didn't he agree? And wouldn't he, perhaps?... But he shook his
head, lighted a cigarette, slowly breathed a great deep puff into her
face, and even while she was still talking and laughing, flicked the
match away and walked on. The ermine toque was alone; she smiled more
brightly than ever. But even the band seemed to know what she was
feeling and played more softly, played tenderly, and the drum beat, "The
Brute! The Brute!" over and over. What would she do? What was going to
happen now? But as Miss Brill wondered, the ermine toque turned, raised
her hand as though she'd seen some one else, much nicer, just over
there, and pattered away. And the band changed again and played more
quickly, more gayly than ever, and the old couple on Miss Brill's seat
got up and marched away, and such a funny old man with long whiskers
hobbled along in time to the music and was nearly knocked over by four
girls walking abreast.

Oh, how fascinating it was! How she enjoyed it! How she loved sitting
here, watching it all! It was like a play. It was exactly like a play.
Who could believe the sky at the back wasn't painted? But it wasn't till
a little brown dog trotted on solemn and then slowly trotted off, like
a little "theatre" dog, a little dog that had been drugged, that Miss
Brill discovered what it was that made it so exciting. They were all
on the stage. They weren't only the audience, not only looking on;
they were acting. Even she had a part and came every Sunday. No doubt
somebody would have noticed if she hadn't been there; she was part of
the performance after all. How strange she'd never thought of it like
that before! And yet it explained why she made such a point of starting
from home at just the same time each week--so as not to be late for
the performance--and it also explained why she had quite a queer,
shy feeling at telling her English pupils how she spent her Sunday
afternoons. No wonder! Miss Brill nearly laughed out loud. She was on
the stage. She thought of the old invalid gentleman to whom she read the
newspaper four afternoons a week while he slept in the garden. She had
got quite used to the frail head on the cotton pillow, the hollowed
eyes, the open mouth and the high pinched nose. If he'd been dead she
mightn't have noticed for weeks; she wouldn't have minded. But suddenly
he knew he was having the paper read to him by an actress! "An actress!"
The old head lifted; two points of light quivered in the old eyes. "An
actress--are ye?" And Miss Brill smoothed the newspaper as though it
were the manuscript of her part and said gently; "Yes, I have been an
actress for a long time."

The band had been having a rest. Now they started again. And what they
played was warm, sunny, yet there was just a faint chill--a something,
what was it?--not sadness--no, not sadness--a something that made you
want to sing. The tune lifted, lifted, the light shone; and it seemed
to Miss Brill that in another moment all of them, all the whole company,
would begin singing. The young ones, the laughing ones who were moving
together, they would begin, and the men's voices, very resolute and
brave, would join them. And then she too, she too, and the others on the
benches--they would come in with a kind of accompaniment--something low,
that scarcely rose or fell, something so beautiful--moving... And Miss
Brill's eyes filled with tears and she looked smiling at all the
other members of the company. Yes, we understand, we understand, she
thought--though what they understood she didn't know.

Just at that moment a boy and girl came and sat down where the old
couple had been. They were beautifully dressed; they were in love. The
hero and heroine, of course, just arrived from his father's yacht. And
still soundlessly singing, still with that trembling smile, Miss Brill
prepared to listen.

"No, not now," said the girl. "Not here, I can't."

"But why? Because of that stupid old thing at the end there?" asked the
boy. "Why does she come here at all--who wants her? Why doesn't she keep
her silly old mug at home?"

"It's her fu-ur which is so funny," giggled the girl. "It's exactly like
a fried whiting."

"Ah, be off with you!" said the boy in an angry whisper. Then: "Tell me,
ma petite chere--"

"No, not here," said the girl. "Not yet."

*****

On her way home she usually bought a slice of honey-cake at the baker's.
It was her Sunday treat. Sometimes there was an almond in her slice,
sometimes not. It made a great difference. If there was an almond it was
like carrying home a tiny present--a surprise--something that might very
well not have been there. She hurried on the almond Sundays and struck
the match for the kettle in quite a dashing way.

But to-day she passed the baker's by, climbed the stairs, went into
the little dark room--her room like a cupboard--and sat down on the red
eiderdown. She sat there for a long time. The box that the fur came out
of was on the bed. She unclasped the necklet quickly; quickly, without
looking, laid it inside. But when she put the lid on she thought she
heard something crying.

</CHAPTER>

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Although the day was warm, Miss Brill was happy she had decided to wear her fur. She had taken it out that morning for the first time all season, brushing its coat and polishing its eyes. She enjoyed the way its sad eyes looked up at her and how soft the fur was. Miss Brill called it "little rogue" and liked how its head tickled her behind the ear. She was so happy she thought about putting the fur on her lap and stroking it. Sitting on her usual bench at the Jardins Publiques, a public local garden, Miss Brill adjusted her fur and watched all of the people around her while a band played nearby. There were more people than usual and the band was playing beautifully to entertain them. Miss Brill liked to watch all of the people and listen to their conversations, without them knowing she was listening in. She had perfected a technique of looking uninterested in her surroundings but in reality she was an avid observer of life at the gardens. An old couple sat near her but they were not very entertaining and sat as still as statues. She watched the crowd as they passed as she did every Sunday, no matter the season. Miss Brill came to realize that nearly all of the people she observed at the gardens on Sundays were somewhat odd. They had a pale look about them, as if they had all been hiding in cupboards and were only now coming out for fresh air. Behind the band's rotunda Miss Brill had a perfect view of the sea, a beautiful backdrop to the stories unfolding before her. Two girls walked past and were joined by two soldiers. A woman with a straw hat ambled by with a donkey. An attractive woman went past, dropping her flowers. A young boy stopped her and gave her back the bouquet but the woman tossed them down again. Miss Brill wasn't sure what to make of that. Another woman wearing an ermine toque appeared with a gentleman. Although the woman was trying very hard to keep the man's attention, he blew smoke rings in her face and then left her behind. The band seemed to sense her mood and played more softly. Eventually the woman left and an old man appeared bobbing his head to the music. Four girls almost knocked him over and Miss Brill was thrilled with them all. It was like watching a play where the sea was the backdrop; the band the orchestra and all of the people were the actors. Even Miss Brill was apart of the production! Miss Brill had had always been very mysterious when her students asked her how she spent her Sunday afternoons. She had gone so far as to tell the elderly gentlemen that she read to during the week that she was an experience actress. And as the band struck up a playful tune, Miss Brill wanted to sing aloud, believing that when she did all of the people around her would join in. They were only waiting for their cue. Miss Brill was just preparing her voice when a handsome boy and girl sat down on the bench with Miss Brill. She immediately recognized them as the hero and heroine of the play and prepared to listen to their conversation. The girl said she would not kiss the boy while seated on the bench. The boy said "But why? Because of that stupid old thing at the end there? Why does she come here at all-who wants her? Why doesn't she keep her silly old mug at home?" . The girl laughed and said Miss Brill's fur was funny looking. On the way home Miss Brill usually stopped to buy a slice of honey-cake from the bakery. Sometimes there was an almond in her slice and sometimes there was not. She always felt very special on the days she found an almond in her cake. Today; however, Miss Brill walked straight past the bakery and headed home. Sitting on the side of her bed, in her little dark room, which felt like a cupboard, she took off her fur and quickly placed it inside its box "but when she put the lid on she thought she heard something crying" .


prompt:
Chapter: <CHAPTER>
10. HER FIRST BALL.

Exactly when the ball began Leila would have found it hard to say.
Perhaps her first real partner was the cab. It did not matter that she
shared the cab with the Sheridan girls and their brother. She sat back
in her own little corner of it, and the bolster on which her hand rested
felt like the sleeve of an unknown young man's dress suit; and away they
bowled, past waltzing lamp-posts and houses and fences and trees.

"Have you really never been to a ball before, Leila? But, my child, how
too weird--" cried the Sheridan girls.

"Our nearest neighbour was fifteen miles," said Leila softly, gently
opening and shutting her fan.

Oh dear, how hard it was to be indifferent like the others! She tried
not to smile too much; she tried not to care. But every single thing
was so new and exciting... Meg's tuberoses, Jose's long loop of amber,
Laura's little dark head, pushing above her white fur like a flower
through snow. She would remember for ever. It even gave her a pang to
see her cousin Laurie throw away the wisps of tissue paper he pulled
from the fastenings of his new gloves. She would like to have kept those
wisps as a keepsake, as a remembrance. Laurie leaned forward and put his
hand on Laura's knee.

"Look here, darling," he said. "The third and the ninth as usual. Twig?"

Oh, how marvellous to have a brother! In her excitement Leila felt that
if there had been time, if it hadn't been impossible, she couldn't have
helped crying because she was an only child, and no brother had ever
said "Twig?" to her; no sister would ever say, as Meg said to Jose that
moment, "I've never known your hair go up more successfully than it has
to-night!"

But, of course, there was no time. They were at the drill hall already;
there were cabs in front of them and cabs behind. The road was bright on
either side with moving fan-like lights, and on the pavement gay couples
seemed to float through the air; little satin shoes chased each other
like birds.

"Hold on to me, Leila; you'll get lost," said Laura.

"Come on, girls, let's make a dash for it," said Laurie.

Leila put two fingers on Laura's pink velvet cloak, and they were
somehow lifted past the big golden lantern, carried along the passage,
and pushed into the little room marked "Ladies." Here the crowd was so
great there was hardly space to take off their things; the noise was
deafening. Two benches on either side were stacked high with wraps. Two
old women in white aprons ran up and down tossing fresh armfuls.
And everybody was pressing forward trying to get at the little
dressing-table and mirror at the far end.

A great quivering jet of gas lighted the ladies' room. It couldn't wait;
it was dancing already. When the door opened again and there came a
burst of tuning from the drill hall, it leaped almost to the ceiling.

Dark girls, fair girls were patting their hair, tying ribbons again,
tucking handkerchiefs down the fronts of their bodices, smoothing
marble-white gloves. And because they were all laughing it seemed to
Leila that they were all lovely.

"Aren't there any invisible hair-pins?" cried a voice. "How most
extraordinary! I can't see a single invisible hair-pin."

"Powder my back, there's a darling," cried some one else.

"But I must have a needle and cotton. I've torn simply miles and miles
of the frill," wailed a third.

Then, "Pass them along, pass them along!" The straw basket of programmes
was tossed from arm to arm. Darling little pink-and-silver programmes,
with pink pencils and fluffy tassels. Leila's fingers shook as she took
one out of the basket. She wanted to ask some one, "Am I meant to
have one too?" but she had just time to read: "Waltz 3. 'Two, Two in
a Canoe.' Polka 4. 'Making the Feathers Fly,'" when Meg cried, "Ready,
Leila?" and they pressed their way through the crush in the passage
towards the big double doors of the drill hall.

Dancing had not begun yet, but the band had stopped tuning, and the
noise was so great it seemed that when it did begin to play it would
never be heard. Leila, pressing close to Meg, looking over Meg's
shoulder, felt that even the little quivering coloured flags strung
across the ceiling were talking. She quite forgot to be shy; she forgot
how in the middle of dressing she had sat down on the bed with one shoe
off and one shoe on and begged her mother to ring up her cousins and
say she couldn't go after all. And the rush of longing she had had to be
sitting on the veranda of their forsaken up-country home, listening to
the baby owls crying "More pork" in the moonlight, was changed to a rush
of joy so sweet that it was hard to bear alone. She clutched her fan,
and, gazing at the gleaming, golden floor, the azaleas, the lanterns,
the stage at one end with its red carpet and gilt chairs and the band in
a corner, she thought breathlessly, "How heavenly; how simply heavenly!"

All the girls stood grouped together at one side of the doors, the
men at the other, and the chaperones in dark dresses, smiling rather
foolishly, walked with little careful steps over the polished floor
towards the stage.

"This is my little country cousin Leila. Be nice to her. Find her
partners; she's under my wing," said Meg, going up to one girl after
another.

Strange faces smiled at Leila--sweetly, vaguely. Strange voices
answered, "Of course, my dear." But Leila felt the girls didn't really
see her. They were looking towards the men. Why didn't the men begin?
What were they waiting for? There they stood, smoothing their gloves,
patting their glossy hair and smiling among themselves. Then, quite
suddenly, as if they had only just made up their minds that that was
what they had to do, the men came gliding over the parquet. There was a
joyful flutter among the girls. A tall, fair man flew up to Meg, seized
her programme, scribbled something; Meg passed him on to Leila. "May I
have the pleasure?" He ducked and smiled. There came a dark man wearing
an eyeglass, then cousin Laurie with a friend, and Laura with a little
freckled fellow whose tie was crooked. Then quite an old man--fat, with
a big bald patch on his head--took her programme and murmured, "Let me
see, let me see!" And he was a long time comparing his programme,
which looked black with names, with hers. It seemed to give him so much
trouble that Leila was ashamed. "Oh, please don't bother," she said
eagerly. But instead of replying the fat man wrote something, glanced at
her again. "Do I remember this bright little face?" he said softly. "Is
it known to me of yore?" At that moment the band began playing; the fat
man disappeared. He was tossed away on a great wave of music that came
flying over the gleaming floor, breaking the groups up into couples,
scattering them, sending them spinning...

Leila had learned to dance at boarding school. Every Saturday afternoon
the boarders were hurried off to a little corrugated iron mission
hall where Miss Eccles (of London) held her "select" classes. But the
difference between that dusty-smelling hall--with calico texts on the
walls, the poor terrified little woman in a brown velvet toque with
rabbit's ears thumping the cold piano, Miss Eccles poking the girls'
feet with her long white wand--and this was so tremendous that Leila was
sure if her partner didn't come and she had to listen to that marvellous
music and to watch the others sliding, gliding over the golden floor,
she would die at least, or faint, or lift her arms and fly out of one of
those dark windows that showed the stars.

"Ours, I think--" Some one bowed, smiled, and offered her his arm; she
hadn't to die after all. Some one's hand pressed her waist, and she
floated away like a flower that is tossed into a pool.

"Quite a good floor, isn't it?" drawled a faint voice close to her ear.

"I think it's most beautifully slippery," said Leila.

"Pardon!" The faint voice sounded surprised. Leila said it again. And
there was a tiny pause before the voice echoed, "Oh, quite!" and she was
swung round again.

He steered so beautifully. That was the great difference between dancing
with girls and men, Leila decided. Girls banged into each other, and
stamped on each other's feet; the girl who was gentleman always clutched
you so.

The azaleas were separate flowers no longer; they were pink and white
flags streaming by.

"Were you at the Bells' last week?" the voice came again. It sounded
tired. Leila wondered whether she ought to ask him if he would like to
stop.

"No, this is my first dance," said she.

Her partner gave a little gasping laugh. "Oh, I say," he protested.

"Yes, it is really the first dance I've ever been to." Leila was most
fervent. It was such a relief to be able to tell somebody. "You see,
I've lived in the country all my life up till now... "

At that moment the music stopped, and they went to sit on two chairs
against the wall. Leila tucked her pink satin feet under and fanned
herself, while she blissfully watched the other couples passing and
disappearing through the swing doors.

"Enjoying yourself, Leila?" asked Jose, nodding her golden head.

Laura passed and gave her the faintest little wink; it made Leila wonder
for a moment whether she was quite grown up after all. Certainly her
partner did not say very much. He coughed, tucked his handkerchief away,
pulled down his waistcoat, took a minute thread off his sleeve. But
it didn't matter. Almost immediately the band started and her second
partner seemed to spring from the ceiling.

"Floor's not bad," said the new voice. Did one always begin with the
floor? And then, "Were you at the Neaves' on Tuesday?" And again Leila
explained. Perhaps it was a little strange that her partners were not
more interested. For it was thrilling. Her first ball! She was only at
the beginning of everything. It seemed to her that she had never known
what the night was like before. Up till now it had been dark, silent,
beautiful very often--oh yes--but mournful somehow. Solemn. And now it
would never be like that again--it had opened dazzling bright.

"Care for an ice?" said her partner. And they went through the swing
doors, down the passage, to the supper room. Her cheeks burned, she was
fearfully thirsty. How sweet the ices looked on little glass plates and
how cold the frosted spoon was, iced too! And when they came back to
the hall there was the fat man waiting for her by the door. It gave her
quite a shock again to see how old he was; he ought to have been on the
stage with the fathers and mothers. And when Leila compared him with her
other partners he looked shabby. His waistcoat was creased, there was
a button off his glove, his coat looked as if it was dusty with French
chalk.

"Come along, little lady," said the fat man. He scarcely troubled to
clasp her, and they moved away so gently, it was more like walking than
dancing. But he said not a word about the floor. "Your first dance,
isn't it?" he murmured.

"How did you know?"

"Ah," said the fat man, "that's what it is to be old!" He wheezed
faintly as he steered her past an awkward couple. "You see, I've been
doing this kind of thing for the last thirty years."

"Thirty years?" cried Leila. Twelve years before she was born!

"It hardly bears thinking about, does it?" said the fat man gloomily.
Leila looked at his bald head, and she felt quite sorry for him.

"I think it's marvellous to be still going on," she said kindly.

"Kind little lady," said the fat man, and he pressed her a little
closer, and hummed a bar of the waltz. "Of course," he said, "you can't
hope to last anything like as long as that. No-o," said the fat man,
"long before that you'll be sitting up there on the stage, looking on,
in your nice black velvet. And these pretty arms will have turned into
little short fat ones, and you'll beat time with such a different kind
of fan--a black bony one." The fat man seemed to shudder. "And you'll
smile away like the poor old dears up there, and point to your daughter,
and tell the elderly lady next to you how some dreadful man tried to
kiss her at the club ball. And your heart will ache, ache"--the fat
man squeezed her closer still, as if he really was sorry for that
poor heart--"because no one wants to kiss you now. And you'll say how
unpleasant these polished floors are to walk on, how dangerous they are.
Eh, Mademoiselle Twinkletoes?" said the fat man softly.

Leila gave a light little laugh, but she did not feel like laughing. Was
it--could it all be true? It sounded terribly true. Was this first ball
only the beginning of her last ball, after all? At that the music seemed
to change; it sounded sad, sad; it rose upon a great sigh. Oh, how
quickly things changed! Why didn't happiness last for ever? For ever
wasn't a bit too long.

"I want to stop," she said in a breathless voice. The fat man led her to
the door.

"No," she said, "I won't go outside. I won't sit down. I'll just stand
here, thank you." She leaned against the wall, tapping with her foot,
pulling up her gloves and trying to smile. But deep inside her a little
girl threw her pinafore over her head and sobbed. Why had he spoiled it
all?

"I say, you know," said the fat man, "you mustn't take me seriously,
little lady."

"As if I should!" said Leila, tossing her small dark head and sucking
her underlip...

Again the couples paraded. The swing doors opened and shut. Now new
music was given out by the bandmaster. But Leila didn't want to dance
any more. She wanted to be home, or sitting on the veranda listening to
those baby owls. When she looked through the dark windows at the stars,
they had long beams like wings...

But presently a soft, melting, ravishing tune began, and a young man
with curly hair bowed before her. She would have to dance, out of
politeness, until she could find Meg. Very stiffly she walked into
the middle; very haughtily she put her hand on his sleeve. But in one
minute, in one turn, her feet glided, glided. The lights, the azaleas,
the dresses, the pink faces, the velvet chairs, all became one beautiful
flying wheel. And when her next partner bumped her into the fat man
and he said, "Pardon," she smiled at him more radiantly than ever. She
didn't even recognise him again.

</CHAPTER>

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Leila's first ball began in a cab. Running her hand along the upholstery of her seat she imagine it was the sleeve of a young man's dress suit. Sharing the cab with Leila were her cousins, the Sheridans: Meg, Jose, Laura, and their brother Laurie. She watched the siblings interact with one another and wished she had sisters and brothers but she was an only child and had spent most of her life in the country. Leila was truly grateful for their company and yet she tried to hide her excitement from them, believing they would think her undignified if they knew just how excited she was to be attending her first ball. She wanted to remember everything about this night and even considered saving the tissue paper that came with Laurie's new gloves as a keepsake but there was no time. They had arrived at the hall and Leila held on to Meg who led the way through the crowds to the Ladies changing area. Leila was transfixed. She watched the other girls fix their elaborate dresses and arrange their hair. A basket of pink and silver programmes with pink pencils and tassels was passed around. Leila could hardly believe her luck. She and Meg took a programme each and then returned to the hall. The band was preparing to play and the crowd was so loud and boisterous Leila forgot to be nervous. She hardly recalled how just hours before she had sat on her bed with only one shoe on and cried for her mother to call the Sheridans and say she could not attend the ball after all. Leila was glad she had come and watched the scene around her unfold with rapt attention. All of the girls stood on one side of the room and the men another, the dance floor between them. The band began to play upon a stage and the chaperones, mostly mothers and fathers, were dressed in darker hues and walked past the dancers to take their places around the room. Meg introduced Leila to her friends and asked them help Leila find someone to dance with. The girls paid little attention to each other and gazed instead at the men across the room. By some unspoken agreement all of the men sauntered over toward the women and soon Leila's dance programme had been signed by several of the young men. She was ecstatic until a fat older man came over and grabbed her programme. He took such a long time in choosing where to put his name that Leila became embarrassed and tried to persuade him not to sign but he did and promised to see her soon. The first waltz of the evening began and Leila's partner gently led her to the dance floor. He complimented the dance floor and Leila agreed and said, "I think it is most beautifully slippery" . Her partner was briefly taken aback by her answer but then asked if she had been to the Bells' ball the week before and she answered that this was her very first ball and she explained that she had lived in the country until only recently and she never had an opportunity to attend a ball until tonight. Her partner seemed unimpressed and when the music ended he escorted her to sit with a group of other couples and ignored her, although Leila didn't mind. She was having a wonderful time and thought of the many dance classes she attended at her all-girl boarding school and how different it felt to dance with a boy. Jose danced past and asked if Leila was having a good time and before she could answer her second partner took her by the hand and they began to dance. He complemented the quality of the floor and Leila was beginning to wonder if this was how all of her dances would begin. He asked if she had ever been to one of the Neave's dances and she replied that she had not. They danced well together and then, to Leila's delight, they made their way into another room and had ice cream. When she returned to the dance hall the fat man was waiting for her. He took her by the waist and expertly waltzed with her around the room. He asked if this was her first dance and told her he had been going to dance halls for thirty years. Leila did not know what to say other than she thought it was wonderful that he still danced. The fat man laughed at her and said nothing lasts forever and warned her that one day soon she would grow old and her slim arms would turn to fat. She would not be able to dance nor welcome to do so and instead she would sit with the chaperones and watch her own daughter dance and she would wonder where the time had gone and why no one wanted to kiss her anymore. The fat man held Leila uncomfortably close and his words pierced her to the core. Somewhere inside of her a younger Leila threw her dress over her head and began to cry. "Was this first ball only the beginning of the last ball after all?" The ecstatic joy she felt earlier in the evening quickly faded and she told the fat man she needed to rest. They stopped dancing and Leila leaned against the wall and tried not to sob aloud. Seeing her distress, the fat man told her not to take him seriously. She watched him leave and be replaced by her next dance partner but the thrill of the evening was gone. Leila wanted to find her cousins and go home. Everything was spoiled. Yet as her new partner led her through the steps and the music swelled around her, Leila began to forget the fat man's words and soon returned to an earlier state of bliss. Later, when she bumped into the fat man, she did not recognize him.


prompt:
Chapter: <CHAPTER>
11. THE SINGING LESSON.

With despair--cold, sharp despair--buried deep in her heart like a
wicked knife, Miss Meadows, in cap and gown and carrying a little baton,
trod the cold corridors that led to the music hall. Girls of all ages,
rosy from the air, and bubbling over with that gleeful excitement that
comes from running to school on a fine autumn morning, hurried, skipped,
fluttered by; from the hollow class-rooms came a quick drumming of
voices; a bell rang; a voice like a bird cried, "Muriel." And then there
came from the staircase a tremendous knock-knock-knocking. Some one had
dropped her dumbbells.

The Science Mistress stopped Miss Meadows.

"Good mor-ning," she cried, in her sweet, affected drawl. "Isn't it
cold? It might be win-ter."

Miss Meadows, hugging the knife, stared in hatred at the Science
Mistress. Everything about her was sweet, pale, like honey. You wold not
have been surprised to see a bee caught in the tangles of that yellow
hair.

"It is rather sharp," said Miss Meadows, grimly.

The other smiled her sugary smile.

"You look fro-zen," said she. Her blue eyes opened wide; there came a
mocking light in them. (Had she noticed anything?)

"Oh, not quite as bad as that," said Miss Meadows, and she gave the
Science Mistress, in exchange for her smile, a quick grimace and passed
on...

Forms Four, Five, and Six were assembled in the music hall. The noise
was deafening. On the platform, by the piano, stood Mary Beazley, Miss
Meadows' favourite, who played accompaniments. She was turning the
music stool. When she saw Miss Meadows she gave a loud, warning "Sh-sh!
girls!" and Miss Meadows, her hands thrust in her sleeves, the baton
under her arm, strode down the centre aisle, mounted the steps, turned
sharply, seized the brass music stand, planted it in front of her, and
gave two sharp taps with her baton for silence.

"Silence, please! Immediately!" and, looking at nobody, her glance swept
over that sea of coloured flannel blouses, with bobbing pink faces and
hands, quivering butterfly hair-bows, and music-books outspread. She
knew perfectly well what they were thinking. "Meady is in a wax." Well,
let them think it! Her eyelids quivered; she tossed her head, defying
them. What could the thoughts of those creatures matter to some one who
stood there bleeding to death, pierced to the heart, to the heart, by
such a letter--

... "I feel more and more strongly that our marriage would be a mistake.
Not that I do not love you. I love you as much as it is possible for
me to love any woman, but, truth to tell, I have come to the conclusion
that I am not a marrying man, and the idea of settling down fills me
with nothing but--" and the word "disgust" was scratched out lightly and
"regret" written over the top.

Basil! Miss Meadows stalked over to the piano. And Mary Beazley, who was
waiting for this moment, bent forward; her curls fell over her cheeks
while she breathed, "Good morning, Miss Meadows," and she motioned
towards rather than handed to her mistress a beautiful yellow
chrysanthemum. This little ritual of the flower had been gone through
for ages and ages, quite a term and a half. It was as much part of the
lesson as opening the piano. But this morning, instead of taking it up,
instead of tucking it into her belt while she leant over Mary and said,
"Thank you, Mary. How very nice! Turn to page thirty-two," what was
Mary's horror when Miss Meadows totally ignored the chrysanthemum, made
no reply to her greeting, but said in a voice of ice, "Page fourteen,
please, and mark the accents well."

Staggering moment! Mary blushed until the tears stood in her eyes, but
Miss Meadows was gone back to the music stand; her voice rang through
the music hall.

"Page fourteen. We will begin with page fourteen. 'A Lament.' Now,
girls, you ought to know it by this time. We shall take it all together;
not in parts, all together. And without expression. Sing it, though,
quite simply, beating time with the left hand."

She raised the baton; she tapped the music stand twice. Down came Mary
on the opening chord; down came all those left hands, beating the air,
and in chimed those young, mournful voices:--

     "Fast!  Ah, too Fast Fade the Ro-o-ses of Pleasure;
        Soon Autumn yields unto Wi-i-nter Drear.
      Fleetly!  Ah, Fleetly Mu-u-sic's Gay Measure
        Passes away from the Listening Ear."

Good Heavens, what could be more tragic than that lament! Every note was
a sigh, a sob, a groan of awful mournfulness. Miss Meadows lifted her
arms in the wide gown and began conducting with both hands. "... I feel
more and more strongly that our marriage would be a mistake... " she
beat. And the voices cried: "Fleetly! Ah, Fleetly." What could have
possessed him to write such a letter! What could have led up to it!
It came out of nothing. His last letter had been all about a fumed-oak
bookcase he had bought for "our" books, and a "natty little hall-stand"
he had seen, "a very neat affair with a carved owl on a bracket, holding
three hat-brushes in its claws." How she had smiled at that! So like
a man to think one needed three hat-brushes! "From the Listening Ear,"
sang the voices.

"Once again," said Miss Meadows. "But this time in parts. Still without
expression." "Fast! Ah, too Fast." With the gloom of the contraltos
added, one could scarcely help shuddering. "Fade the Roses of Pleasure."
Last time he had come to see her, Basil had worn a rose in his
buttonhole. How handsome he had looked in that bright blue suit, with
that dark red rose! And he knew it, too. He couldn't help knowing it.
First he stroked his hair, then his moustache; his teeth gleamed when he
smiled.

"The headmaster's wife keeps on asking me to dinner. It's a perfect
nuisance. I never get an evening to myself in that place."

"But can't you refuse?"

"Oh, well, it doesn't do for a man in my position to be unpopular."

"Music's Gay Measure," wailed the voices. The willow trees, outside
the high, narrow windows, waved in the wind. They had lost half their
leaves. The tiny ones that clung wriggled like fishes caught on a
line. "... I am not a marrying man... " The voices were silent; the piano
waited.

"Quite good," said Miss Meadows, but still in such a strange, stony tone
that the younger girls began to feel positively frightened. "But now
that we know it, we shall take it with expression. As much expression as
you can put into it. Think of the words, girls. Use your imaginations.
'Fast! Ah, too Fast,'" cried Miss Meadows. "That ought to break out--a
loud, strong forte--a lament. And then in the second line, 'Winter
Drear,' make that 'Drear' sound as if a cold wind were blowing through
it. 'Dre-ear!'" said she so awfully that Mary Beazley, on the music
stool, wriggled her spine. "The third line should be one crescendo.
'Fleetly! Ah, Fleetly Music's Gay Measure.' Breaking on the first word
of the last line, Passes.' And then on the word, 'Away,' you must begin
to die... to fade... until 'The Listening Ear' is nothing more than a
faint whisper... You can slow down as much as you like almost on the last
line. Now, please."

Again the two light taps; she lifted her arms again. 'Fast! Ah, too
Fast.' "... and the idea of settling down fills me with nothing but
disgust--" Disgust was what he had written. That was as good as to
say their engagement was definitely broken off. Broken off! Their
engagement! People had been surprised enough that she had got engaged.
The Science Mistress would not believe it at first. But nobody had been
as surprised as she. She was thirty. Basil was twenty-five. It had been
a miracle, simply a miracle, to hear him say, as they walked home from
church that very dark night, "You know, somehow or other, I've got fond
of you." And he had taken hold of the end of her ostrich feather boa.
"Passes away from the Listening Ear."

"Repeat! Repeat!" said Miss Meadows. "More expression, girls! Once
more!"

"Fast! Ah, too Fast." The older girls were crimson; some of the younger
ones began to cry. Big spots of rain blew against the windows, and one
could hear the willows whispering, "... not that I do not love you... "

"But, my darling, if you love me," thought Miss Meadows, "I don't mind
how much it is. Love me as little as you like." But she knew he didn't
love her. Not to have cared enough to scratch out that word "disgust,"
so that she couldn't read it! "Soon Autumn yields unto Winter Drear."
She would have to leave the school, too. She could never face the
Science Mistress or the girls after it got known. She would have to
disappear somewhere. "Passes away." The voices began to die, to fade, to
whisper... to vanish...

Suddenly the door opened. A little girl in blue walked fussily up the
aisle, hanging her head, biting her lips, and twisting the silver bangle
on her red little wrist. She came up the steps and stood before Miss
Meadows.

"Well, Monica, what is it?"

"Oh, if you please, Miss Meadows," said the little girl, gasping, "Miss
Wyatt wants to see you in the mistress's room."

"Very well," said Miss Meadows. And she called to the girls, "I shall
put you on your honour to talk quietly while I am away." But they were
too subdued to do anything else. Most of them were blowing their noses.

The corridors were silent and cold; they echoed to Miss Meadows' steps.
The head mistress sat at her desk. For a moment she did not look up. She
was as usual disentangling her eyeglasses, which had got caught in her
lace tie. "Sit down, Miss Meadows," she said very kindly. And then she
picked up a pink envelope from the blotting-pad. "I sent for you just
now because this telegram has come for you."

"A telegram for me, Miss Wyatt?"

Basil! He had committed suicide, decided Miss Meadows. Her hand flew
out, but Miss Wyatt held the telegram back a moment. "I hope it's not
bad news," she said, so more than kindly. And Miss Meadows tore it open.

"Pay no attention to letter, must have been mad, bought hat-stand
to-day--Basil," she read. She couldn't take her eyes off the telegram.

"I do hope it's nothing very serious," said Miss Wyatt, leaning forward.

"Oh, no, thank you, Miss Wyatt," blushed Miss Meadows. "It's nothing bad
at all. It's"--and she gave an apologetic little laugh--"it's from my
fiance saying that... saying that--" There was a pause. "I see," said
Miss Wyatt. And another pause. Then--"You've fifteen minutes more of
your class, Miss Meadows, haven't you?"

"Yes, Miss Wyatt." She got up. She half ran towards the door.

"Oh, just one minute, Miss Meadows," said Miss Wyatt. "I must say I
don't approve of my teachers having telegrams sent to them in school
hours, unless in case of very bad news, such as death," explained Miss
Wyatt, "or a very serious accident, or something to that effect. Good
news, Miss Meadows, will always keep, you know."

On the wings of hope, of love, of joy, Miss Meadows sped back to the
music hall, up the aisle, up the steps, over to the piano.

"Page thirty-two, Mary," she said, "page thirty-two," and, picking up
the yellow chrysanthemum, she held it to her lips to hide her smile.
Then she turned to the girls, rapped with her baton: "Page thirty-two,
girls. Page thirty-two."

     "We come here To-day with Flowers o'erladen,
      With Baskets of Fruit and Ribbons to boot,
      To-oo Congratulate...

"Stop! Stop!" cried Miss Meadows. "This is awful. This is dreadful." And
she beamed at her girls. "What's the matter with you all? Think, girls,
think of what you're singing. Use your imaginations. 'With Flowers
o'erladen. Baskets of Fruit and Ribbons to boot.' And 'Congratulate.'"
Miss Meadows broke off. "Don't look so doleful, girls. It ought to sound
warm, joyful, eager. 'Congratulate.' Once more. Quickly. All together.
Now then!"

And this time Miss Meadows' voice sounded over all the other
voices--full, deep, glowing with expression.

</CHAPTER>

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Miss Meadows, in utter despair, made her way to the music hall. She was dressed in her usual academic attire and was on her way to teach her first signing lesson of the day. Girls of all ages passed her in the hall, laughing, running, calling out to one another. Miss Meadows was immune to their happiness. Basil, her fiance, had called off the wedding. The Science Mistress stopped Miss Meadows in the hallway. They were fellow faculty members in the all girls' school in which Miss Meadow's taught singing lessons. She hated the Science Mistress for her cheerfulness, her beauty, and charm; today, she hated her especially for her sweetness, and would not have been surprised if bees sprang from her sun-kissed hair. Miss Meadows exchanged strained pleasantries with the Science Mistress and walked down the hall to her classroom where forms Four, Five, and Six were waiting. She marched onto the stage, looking down at the row of students before her and gave two sharp taps with her baton for silence. Mary Beazley, her favorite pupil, was at the piano and would play accompaniments. Miss Meadows sensed her student's irritation with her but she could not hide her anger for long. "What could the thoughts of those creatures matter to someone who stood there bleeding to death, pierced to the heart, to the heart, by such a letter - " "...I feel more and more strongly that our marriage would be a mistake" began Basil's letter to Miss Meadows. He went on to say that he was not a "marrying man" and that although he loved her the thought of marrying her filled him with regret. Miss Meadows saw he had written "disgust" first and had crossed it out and wrote, "regret." She thought he could not love her at all if he had not the decency to make sure she would not have been able to read of his "disgust" toward her. Ignorant of the world around her, Miss Meadows walked to the piano where Mary tried to engage Miss Meadows in conversation as part of their usual morning routine but Miss Meadows only barked at her to start at page fourteen, "A Lament." She did not even take the beautiful yellow chrysanthemum that Mary had brought for her. Fighting back tears, Mary began to play. Addressing her class, Miss Meadows instructed them to sing without expression and the result was indeed tragic. "Every note was a sigh, a sob, a groan of awful mournfulness" . Miss Meadows led her students through the dreadful dirge all the while thinking of Basil. How could he have written such a letter? What had prompted him to do so? In his last letter he had talked about buying a hat stand. How could he have changed his mind so quickly? The song ended and Miss Meadows said they would begin again this time with expression asking the girls to use their imagination and find meaning behind the words of the song. For example she instructed them to single "drear" as if a cold wind were blowing through. Miss Meadows spoke as if her voice was made of stone, and the youngest students began to feel frightened of her. Down came the baton and the lament began again as did Miss Meadow's inner turmoil. If their engagement were off, then she would have to leave her job. People had been surprised that she had finally got engaged at all especially to Basil who was in his twenties and five years younger than her. She knew could not face the Science Mistress or her students ever again. She was in disgrace. Beckoning the girls with her baton, the music sped up. The older girls were red in the face, the younger girls began to cry and Miss Meadows stood before them her mind miles away begging Basil to love her or to allow her to love him and perhaps her love would be enough for both of them but she knew her pleas were useless. She would have to disappear. On this thought the song ended and her students' voices faded. Just then the door opened and a student entered and told Miss Meadows that the headmistress, Miss Wyatt, wanted to see her. Instructing the girls to talk quietly while she was away, Miss Meadows walked to the headmistress' office. There Miss Wyatt handed her a telegram. "Pay no attention to letter must have been made bought hat-stand today, Basil" . Miss Wyatt asked if the telegram contained bad news. Miss Meadows, who had been transformed by the telegram's message, said it was good news. Miss Wyatt told her in future that good news should wait until after school hours. Miss Meadows, happy once more, returned to her class. "On the wings of hope, of love, of joy" , she led them in a different song, one of congratulations. Miss Meadow's voice sung the loudest of all the voices.