All Janet’s irritation was back, but she controlled herself this time. She nodded and told Iris to show her where she kept her books.

The morning passed quickly. Janet discovered that Iris had practically nothing to learn from. There was no atlas, there were two exercise books full of her early efforts at letter making. There were three or four Beatrix Potter’s, and one Babar, which had been bought to teach her to read. There was a box of lettered bricks, and the little library of books from which her mother had read aloud to her. She and Iris made out a timetable of things that must be learned, and things which Iris wanted to learn. Things which should be done in the schoolroom, and things which could be done out of doors. They had just finished a rough list when a bell clanged. Iris jumped off her chair.

“Come on. That’s my milk. Is my hair tidy?”

Janet had a comb in her bag, she ran it through the child’s hair, and straightened her bows on her plaits.

“You’ll do; anyway, I don’t expect it matters very much just for drinking milk.”

Iris led the way downstairs.

“Oh, it does,” she spoke in a hoarse whisper. “It matters awf’ly to Gladys. Ben says she’s so tidy she won’t be able to lie quiet in her grave if her shroud don’t sit sweet.”

Gladys was flying round the kitchen apparently doing three jobs at once. On the table was a glass of milk and a plate with two biscuits on it.

“Sit down, Iris, and eat tidily,” she said in a voice which made Janet bristle. “You can have a cup of coffee, Miss Brain.”