The singing lessons were far different. Some weeks after the report of her kissing in the art room it gradually became plain that Miss Brodie was agitated before, during, and after the singing lessons. She wore her newest clothes on singing days.

Sandy said to Monica Douglas, “Are you sure it was Mr. Lloyd who kissed her? Are you sure it wasn’t Mr. Lowther?”

“It was Mr. Lloyd,” said Monica, “and it was in the art room, not the music room. What would Mr. Lowther have been doing in the art room?”

“They look alike, Mr. Lloyd and Mr. Lowther,” Sandy said.

Monica’s anger was rising in her face. “It was Mr. Lloyd with his one arm round her,” she said. “I saw them. I’m sorry I ever told you. Rose is the only one that believes me.”

Rose Stanley believed her, but this was because she was indifferent. She was the least of all the Brodie set to be excited by Miss Brodie’s love affairs, or by anyone else’s sex. And it was always to be the same. Later, when she was famous for sex, her magnificently appealing qualities lay in the fact that she had no curiosity about sex at all, she never reflected upon it. As Miss Brodie was to say, she had instinct.

“Rose is the only one who believes me,” said Monica Douglas.

When she visited Sandy at the nunnery in the late nineteen-fifties, Monica said, “I really did see Teddy Lloyd kiss Miss Brodie in the art room one day.”

“I know you did,” said Sandy.

She knew it even before Miss Brodie had told her so one day after the end of the war, when they sat in the Braid Hills Hotel eating sandwiches and drinking tea which Miss Brodie’s rations at home would not run to. Miss Brodie sat shrivelled and betrayed in her long-preserved dark musquash coat. She had been retired before time. She said, “I am past my prime.”

“It was a good prime,” said Sandy.

They looked out of the wide windows at the little Braid Burn trickling through the fields and at the hills beyond, so austere from everlasting that they had never been capable of losing anything by the war.

“Teddy Lloyd was greatly in love with me, as you know,” said Miss Brodie, “and I with him. It was a great love. One day in the art room he kissed me. We never became lovers, not even after you left Edinburgh, when the temptation was strongest.” Sandy stared through her little eyes at the hills.

“But I renounced him,” said Miss Brodie. “He was a married man. I renounced the great love of my prime. We had everything in common, the artistic nature.”

She had reckoned on her prime lasting till she was sixty. But this, the year after the war, was in fact Miss Brodie’s last and fifty-sixth year. She looked older than that, she was suffering from an internal growth. This was her last year in the world and in another sense it was Sandy’s.