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Behind her distress two impressions went to and fro Fraulein and the raccommodage party sitting in judgment and the whole roomful waiting for cancer. Very gently at the end of half an hour Fraulein dismissed the Germans to practise. Herr Schraub was coming at eleven. Miriam supposed she was free until then and went upstairs. On the landing she met Mademoiselle coming downstairs with mending.
Why did they teach them anything at all? The same impression, the sense of a half-impatient, half-exasperated tuition came to her from the lectures of Herr Winter and Herr Schraub. Herr Winter, a thin tall withered-looking man with shabby hair and bony hands whose veins stood up in knots, drummed on the table as he taught botany and geography.
The girls sat round bookless and politely attentive and seemed, the Germans at least, to remember all the facts for which he appealed during the last few minutes of his hour. Miriam could never recall anything but his weary withered face. Herr Schraub, the teacher of history, was, she felt, almost openly contemptuous of his class. He would begin lecturing, almost before he was inside the door.
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