She did not put the bottles away, in case the Professor should come back and want them, but she took them off the table and dusted it, and then put them back in orderly rows. The saucers she wisely did not touch, except to dust underneath them. Then she attacked the dark closet, which was surrounded by shelves, holding innumerable saucers, trays, bottles, and boxes. A good many of these things were on the floor. Joey rammed her dusters into the pockets of her coat, and set to work to find a safer resting-place for them. She was really interested by now in this duty which had been thrust upon her in right of her scholarship; so absorbed indeed that she never heard an exclamation at the door and a quick step across the room. She noticed nothing till the half-open door of the closet was wrenched violently wide. And she sprang round to find herself looking into the furious light eyes of the French Professor.
He was a short man, this Monsieur Trouville, neat and dapper, though inclined to be fat. His high forehead peaked up to his receding hair, his short moustache was stiffly waxed and stood out very black against his pallid face. He was not ill-looking, but just at that moment Joey thought she had never seen anyone quite so unpleasant.
He caught her by the arm. "What are you doing here? How dare you come? Do you not know it is forbidden, except when I take the classes here? I will report you to Miss Conyngham. You shall be expelled."
Joey stood her ground. "You can't expel people when they've only just come," she assured him stoutly. "It ... isn't done. Besides, I'm all right to tidy here. I'm the scholarship girl."
This last statement did not appear to mitigate Monsieur Trouville's fury in the least.
"You have distairbed all my bottles--you have made for me hours of work with your disobedience," he snarled. "I vill have you punished--you shall be no more at Redlands!"
He began to cast about the room, like a blood-hound nosing for a trail. Joey felt rather frightened; there was no doubt about it, Monsieur Trouville was really angry. He spluttered out the objurgations in his strong French accent rather like an angry cat. Somehow, in spite of what Noreen and Syb had said, she had not expected him to be quite so much annoyed by her presence.