The clear dry hock had leapt to Miriam’s brain and opened her eyes, the Burgundy spread through her limbs, a warm silky tide. The green flavour of the spinach, tasting of earth, and yet as smooth as cream intoxicated her. Surely nothing could so delicately build up your strength as these small stubby slices of meat so tender that it seemed to crumble under your teeth. … “It’s an awful thing. It whirls about and writes with a pencil. Writes. All sorts of things,” said Mrs. Corrie, with a little frightened laugh. “Really. No nonsense. Names. Anythin’. Whatever you’re thinkin’ about. It’s uncanny, I can tell you.”
“It sounds most extraordinary,” said Miriam, with a firm touch of scepticism.
“You wait. Oh—you wait,” sang Mrs. Corrie in a whisper. “I shall find out, I shall find out, if you’re not careful, I shall find out his name.”
Miriam blushed violently. “Ah-ha,” beamed Mrs. Corrie in a soft high monotone. “I shall find out. We’ll have such fun.”
“Do you believe in it?” said Miriam, half irritably.
“You wait—you wait—you wait, young lady. Mélie’ll be here on Friday day.”
The rich caramel, the nuts and dessert, Mrs. Corrie’s approval of her refusal of port wine with her nuts, the curious, half-drowsy chill which fell upon the table, darkening and sharpening everything in the room as the broken brown nutshells increased upon their trellis-edged plates were under the spell of the strange woman. Mrs. Corrie kept on talking about her; Mélie—born in Devonshire, seeing fairies, having second sight, being seen one day staring into space by a sportsman, a fisherman, a sort of poet, who married her and brought her to London. Did Mrs. Corrie really believe that she knew everything? “I believe she’s a changeling,” laughed Mrs. Corrie at last—“oh, it’s cold. Chum-long, let’s go.”
“We can’t go into my little room,” said Mrs. Corrie, turning to Miriam with a little excited catch in her voice, as the bead curtain rattled gently into place behind them. “It’s bein’ redone.” Just ahead of them, beyond a mystery of palms to right and left, a door opened upon warm brilliance. Miriam heard the busy tranquil flickering of a fire. “I see,” she said eagerly. “Why does she explain?” she wondered, as they passed into the large clear room. How light it was, fairyland, light and fragrant and very warm. The light was high; creamy bulbs, high up, and creamy colour everywhere, cream and gold stripes, stripy chairs of every shape, some of them with twisted gilt legs, curious oval pictures in soft halftones, women in hats, strange groups, all tilted forward like mirrors.
“Ooogh—barracky, ain’t it? I hate empty droin’-rooms,” said Mrs. Corrie, sweeping swiftly about, pushing up great striped easy chairs towards the fire. Miriam stood in a dream, watching the little pale hands in the clear light, dead white fingers, rings, twinkling green and sea blue, and the thin cruel flash of tiny diamonds … harpy hands … dreadful and clever … one of the hands came upon her own and compelled her to drop into a large cushioned chair.
“Like him black?” came the gay voice. Coffee cups tinkled on a little low table near Mrs. Corrie’s chair. “I’m glad you’re tall. Kummel?”
“She doesn’t know German pronunciation,” thought Miriam complacently.
“I suppose I am,” she said, accepting a transparent little cup and refusing the liqueur. Those strange eyes were blue with dark rings round the iris and there were fine deep wrinkles about the mouth and chin. She looked so picturesque sitting there, like something by an “old master,” but worn and tired. Why was she so happy—if she thought so many things were deadly awful. …
“How’s Gabbie Anstruther?”
“Oh—you see—I don’t know Mrs. Anstruther. They are patients of my future brother-in-law. It was all arranged by letter.”
“About your comin’ here, you mean. I say—you’ll never get engaged, will you? Promise?”
Miriam got up out of her deep chair and stood with her elbow on the low mantel staring into the fire. She heard phrases from Mrs. Anstruther’s letter to Bennett as if they were being spoken by a tiresome grave voice. “She doats upon her children. What she really wants is someone to control her; read Shakespeare to her and get her into the air.” Mrs. Corrie did not want Shakespeare. That was quite clear. And it was quite clear that she wanted a plain dull woman she could count on; always there, in a black dress. She doted. Someone else, working for her, in her pay, would look after the children and do the hard work.
“The kiddies were ’riffickly ’cited. Wanted to stay up. I hope you’re strict, very strict, eh?”
“I believe I’m supposed to understand discipline,” said Miriam stiffly, gazing with weary eyes at the bars of the grate.
“We were in an awful fix before we heard about you. Poor old Bunnikin breakin’ down. She adored them—they’re angels. But she hadn’t the tiniest bit of a hold over them. Used to cry when they were naughty. You know. Poor old kiddies. Want them to be awfully clever. Work like a house afire. I know you’re clever. P’raps you won’t stay with my little heathens. Do try and stay. I can see you’ve got just what they want. Strong-minded, eh? I’m an imbecile. So was poor old Bunnikin. D’you like kiddies?”
“Oh, I’m very fond of children,” said Miriam despairingly. She stared at the familiar bars. They were the bars of the old breakfast-room grate at home, and the schoolroom bars at Banbury Park. There they were again hard and black in the hard black grate in the midst of all this light and warmth and fragrance. Nothing had really changed. Black and hard. Someone’s grate. She was alone again. Mrs. Corrie would soon find out. “I think children are so interesting,” she said conversationally, struck by a feeling of originality in the remark. Perhaps
