Free The Death of the Heart by Elizabeth Bowen

got their fine pens out to draw maps; they hitched their heels up on the rungs of their chairs, looking glad they had not had to go out. Some distance away from the big table, Miss Paullie sat going through essays, in a gothic chair, at a table of her own. Because the day was dark, a swan-necked reading lamp bent light on to what Miss Paullie read. She kept turning pages, the girls fidgeted cautiously, now and then a gurgle came from a hot pipe—the tissue of small sounds that they called silence filled the room to the dome. Lilian stopped now and then to examine her mapping nib, or to brood over her delicate state. Portia pressed her diaphragm to the edge of the table, and kept feeling at her bag against her stomach. Everybody’s attention to what they were doing hardened—optimistically, Portia now felt safe.
    She leant back, looked round, bent forward and, as softly as possible, clicked open her bag. She took out a blue letter: this she spread on her knee below the table and started to read for the second time.

Dear Portia,
What you did the other night was so sweet, I feel I must write and tell you how it cheered me up. I hope you won’t mind—you won’t, you will understand: I feel we are friends already. I was sad, going away, for various reasons, but one was that I thought you must have gone to bed by then, and that I should not see you again. So I cannot tell you what a surprise it was finding you there in the hall, holding my hat. I saw then that you must have been seeing how depressed I was, and that you wanted, you darling, to cheer me up. I cannot tell you what your suddenly being there like that in the hall, and giving me my hat as I went away, meant. I know I didn’t behave well, up there in the drawingroom, and I’m afraid I behaved even worse after you went away, but that was not altogether my fault. You know how I love Anna, as I’m sure you do too, but when she starts to say to me “Really, Eddie”, I feel like a wild animal, and behave accordingly. I am much too influenced by people’s manner towards me—especially Anna’s, I suppose. Directly people attack me, I think they are right, and hate myself, and then I hate them— the more I like them this is so. So I went downstairs for my hat that night (Monday night, wasn’t it?) feeling perfectly black. When you appeared in the hall and so sweetly gave me my hat, everything calmed down. Not only your being there, but the thought (is this presumptuous of me?) that perhaps you had actually been waiting, made me feel quite in heaven. I could not say so then, I thought you might not like it, but I cannot help writing to say so now.
Also, I once heard you say, in the natural way you say things, that you did not very often get letters, so I thought perhaps you might like to get this. You and I are two rather alone people—with you that is just chance, with me, I expect, it is partly my bad nature. I am so difficult, you are so good and sweet. I feel particularly alone tonight (I am in my flat, which I do not like very much) because I tried just now to telephone to Anna about something and she was rather short, so I did not try any more. I expect she gets bored with me, or finds me too difficult. Oh Portia, I do wish you and I could be friends. Perhaps we could sometimes go for walks in the park? I sit here and think how nice it would be if—

    “Portia!” said Miss Paullie. Portia leaped as though she had been struck. “My dear child, don’t sit hunched like that. Don’t work under the table. Put your work on the table. What have you got there? Don’t keep things on your knee.”
    As Portia still did nothing, Miss Paullie pushed her own small table from in front of her chair, got up and came swiftly round to where Portia sat. All the girls stared.
    Miss Paullie said: “Surely that is not a letter? This is not the place or the time to read your letters, is it? I think you must notice that the other girls don’t do that. And, wherever one is,