motioned towards rather than handed to her mistress a beautiful yellow
chrysanthemum. This little ritual of the flower had been gone through
for ages and ages, quite a term and a half. It was as much part of the
lesson as opening the piano. But this morning, instead of taking it up,
instead of tucking it into her belt while she leant over Mary and said,
“Thank you, Mary. How very nice! Turn to page thirty-two,” what was
Mary’s horror when Miss Meadows totally ignored the chrysanthemum, made
no reply to her greeting, but said in a voice of ice, “Page fourteen,
please, and mark the accents well.” Staggering moment! Mary blushed
until the tears stood in her eyes, but Miss Meadows was gone back to the
music stand; her voice rang through the music hall.
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