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Updated: June 5, 2025
At the end of her first term her position was second only to the Head. If Miss Cursiter was the will and intelligence of St. Sidwell's, Rhoda Vivian was its subtle poetry and its soul. And Miss Cursiter meant to keep her there; being a woman who made all sacrifices and demanded them.
So small and insignificant was she that she might have crept along for ever unnoticed but for her punctuality in obstruction. As St. Sidwell's prided itself on the brilliance and efficiency of its staff, the wonder was how Miss Quincey came to be there, but there she had been for five-and-twenty years. She seemed to have stiffened into her place.
"Perfectly, perfectly in myself," said Miss Quincey, "I think, perhaps that is, sometimes I'm a little afraid that taking so much arsenic may have disagreed with me. You know it is a deadly poison. But I've left it off lately, so I ought to be better unless perhaps I'm feeling the want of it." "You are not worrying about St. Sidwell's about your work?" "It's not that not that.
"Stand back, Miss Quincey, if you please." And Miss Quincey stood back, flattening herself against the wall, and the procession passed her by, rosy, resonant, exulting, a triumph of life. Household Gods Punctually at four-thirty Miss Quincey vanished from the light of St. Sidwell's, Regent's Park, into the obscurity of Camden Town.
Louisa's sister was a part of Louisa; Louisa was a part of St. Sidwell's College, Regent's Park; and St. Sidwell's College, Regent's Park, was a part no, St. Sidwell's was the whole; it was the glorious world. Miss Quincey had never seen, or even desired to see any other. That college was to her a place of exquisite order and light.
It was her duty to live, for the sake of St. Sidwell's and of Mrs. Moon; and she was only calling Dr. Cautley in to help her to do it. She hardly expected him till late in the day; so she was a little startled, when she came in after morning school, to find Mrs. Moon waiting for her at the stairs, quivering with indignation that could have but one cause.
All the clever young men she had met had displayed a noble contempt for appearances. To be sure, Miss Quincey knew but little of the world of men; for at St. Sidwell's the types were limited to three little eccentric professors, and the plaster gods in the art studio.
The flowers in the school Anthology withered under her fingers, and the flesh and blood of heroes crumbled into the dust of dates. As for the philosopher under the roofs, who he was, and what was his philosophy, and how he ever came to be under the roofs at all, nobody in St. Sidwell's ever knew or ever cared to know; Miss Quincey had made him eternally uninteresting.
For a moment Mrs. Baker hesitated, but she was too much in awe of her daughter to enter uninvited. "I have a note for you," she announced. "Mr. Sidwell's man Alec just brought it. He says there's to be an answer." But still the girl did not move. It was an unpropitious time to mention the club-man's name.
"I can hardly believe it," she said absently. "It seems impossible." Sidwell forced a smile. "Impossible? What? That I should paint a daub like that?" The girl's tense hands relaxed wearily. "No, not that you paint, but that the man there the one finding happiness unattainable should be you." The lids dropped just a shade over Sidwell's black eyes.
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