The school was not far away — a short walk along the main road and then a longer walk down a side street that was wider and busier than this one, with much bigger houses, except at the end, where the houses were suddenly very small and close together. The school was across from the small houses, behind a high cement wall with a narrow iron gate in its center. The gate opened into a cement yard, where the children played at lunchtime, and the school building, gray and high, with a few large, oblong, institutional windows, fitted and matched the yard exactly, as though a child had drawn and colored it. The yard was completely closed in by high cement walls, and to the right, looking from the gate, there was a very long, low wooden bench where the smallest children sometimes sat in a row and did their lessons. There were children in the school who were no more than three years old, and some of them, Mrs. Bagot suspected, were only two. But they were able to walk — that was all the school required — and Mrs. Bagot would not have admitted to anyone that one of her reasons for going to the trouble of bringing Lily and Margaret their lunch every day was so that she could see the little boys and girls who were just able to walk. The little ones were let out to play before the rest of the school, and by the time she got to the gate they were generally running around, stumbling like moths from one side of the yard to the other and beating at the air with their hands, and looking up at their teacher as though they imagined she produced the light by which they played. There was no one to question Mrs. Bagot’s right to stand and watch the children. If anyone questioned her she would simply say she had to bring Lily and Margaret their lunch. Well, there would be no bringing lunch for a while. It would be more than five weeks before they had to go back to school.