She made no attempt to pay off that small outstanding debt to _Sordello._ There was an end of the intellectual life; for the living wells of literature were tainted; Browning had become a bitter memory and Tennyson a shame.
But if Miss Quincey had no heart for General Culture, she was busier than ever in the discharge of her regular duties.

At the end of the midsummer term the pressure on the staff was heavy.

Her work had grown with the growth of St.Sidwell's, and the pile of marble and granite copy-books rose higher than ever; it was monumental, and Miss Quincey was glad enough to bury her grief under it for a time.

Indeed it looked as if in St.Sidwell's she had found the shelter where she could hide her head; and a very desirable shelter too, as long as Mrs.Moon continued in that lively temper.

Gradually she began to realize that of all those five hundred pairs of eyes there was none that had discovered her secret; that not one of those busy brains was occupied with her affairs.