But she was not to be caught; she treated all events, however recent or old, from a purely impersonal standpoint, and left them still in the dark as to whether she was an infant in arms at the time or an adult able to enjoy the newspapers.

On the subject of names she was indifferent, and would express no opinion on the relative merits of Mary, Martha, Margaret, Millicent, Marion, Muriel, Mona, or Maud.
"It's either plain Mary, or something so fearfully fancy she won't own up to it," decided the girls.
In whatever decade Miss Teddington's birthday placed her, this year she was certainly in the prime of life and energy as concerned the school.
Her keen eyes noticed everything, and woe betide the slacker who thought to escape her, and dared bring an unprepared lesson to class.

Her sarcasms on such occasions made her victims writhe, though they were apt to be witty enough to amuse the rest of the form.

Though, like John Gilpin's wife, she was on pleasure bent to-day, she never for a moment forgot she was in charge, and kept turning to see that everybody was following, and nobody straggling far off in the rear.
It was a three-mile walk from The Woodlands to the snowdrop meadows--first along the high road, with an occasional short cut across a field or through a spinney, then down a deep, narrow lane past a farm, where the sight of a new-born lamb (the first of the season) caused great excitement.

Some of the girls, who loved old superstitions, pretended to divine their luck by whether it was standing facing them or otherwise when they first caught a glimpse of it; but, the general verdict deciding that it was exactly sideways, they found it impossible to give any accurate predictions for the future.
"You'd better keep to something vague that can be construed two ways, like the Delphic Oracle or _Old Moore's Almanac_," laughed Ulyth.
Once past the farm the walk began to grow specially interesting.