Pointed Roofs

to say, to her remark about the almond tree and everything else; and then she felt that there was nothing more to be said between them. They were both quite silent. Everything seemed settled. Miriam’s mind called up a picture of a middle-aged man in a Saxon blue uniform⁠—all voice and no brains⁠—and going to take to gardening in his old age⁠—and longed to tell Elsa of her contempt for all military men. Clearly she felt Elsa’s and Elsa’s mother’s feeling towards herself. Elsa’s mother had thin ankles, too, and was like Elsa intent and cold and dead. She could imagine Elsa in society now⁠—hard and thin and glittery⁠—she would be stylish⁠—military men’s women always were. The girl had avoided being with her during walks since then, and they never voluntarily addressed one another. Minna and the Bergmanns had talked to her. Minna responded to everything she said in her eager husky voice⁠—not because she was interested Miriam felt, but because she was polite, and it had tired her once or twice dreadfully to go on “making conversation” with Minna. She had wanted to like being with these three. She felt she could give them something. It made her full of solicitude to glance at either of them at her side. She had longed to feel at home with them and to teach them things worth teaching; they seemed pitiful in some way, like children in her hands. She did not know how to begin. All her efforts and their efforts left them just as pitiful.

---

Each occasion left her more puzzled and helpless. Now and again she thought there was going to be a change. She would feel a stirring of animation in her companions. Then she would discover that someone was being discussed, generally one of the girls; or perhaps they were beginning to tell her something about Fräulein Pfaff, or talking about food. These topics made her feel ill at ease at once. Things were going wrong. It was not to discuss such things that they were together out in the air in the wonderful streets and boulevards of Hanover. She would grow cold and constrained, and the conversation would drop.

And then, suddenly, within a day or so of each other, dreadful things had happened.

The first had come on the second occasion of her going with Minna to see Dr. Dieckel. Minna, as they were walking quietly along together had suddenly begun in a broken English which soon turned to shy, fluent, animated German, to tell about a friend, an Apotheker, a man, Miriam gathered⁠—missing many links in her amazement⁠—in a shop, the chemist’s shop where her parents dealt, in the little country town in Pomerania which was her home. Minna was so altered, looked so radiantly happy whilst she talked about this man that Miriam had wanted to put out a hand and touch her. Afterwards she could recall the sound of her voice as it was at that moment with its yearning and its promise and its absolute confidence, Minna was so certain of her happiness⁠—at the end of each hurried little phrase her voice sounded like a chord⁠—like three strings sounding at once on some strange instrument.

And soon afterwards Emma had told her very gravely, with Clara walking a little aloof, her doglike eyes shining as she gazed into the distance, of a “most beautiful man” with a brown moustache, with whom Clara was in love. He was there in the town, in Hanover, a hair specialist, treating Clara’s thin short hair.

---

Even Emma had a Jüngling. He had a very vulgar surname, too vulgar to be spoken; it was breathed against Miriam’s shoulder in the half-light. Miriam was begged to forget it at once and to remember only the beautiful little name that preceded it.

At the time she had timidly responded to all these stories and had felt glad that the confidences had come to her.

Mademoiselle, she knew, had never received them.

But after these confidences there were no more serious attempts at general conversation.

---

Miriam felt ashamed of her share in the hairdresser and the chemist. Emma’s Jüngling might possibly be a student.⁠ ⁠… She grieved over the things that she felt were lying neglected, “things in general” she felt sure she ought to discuss with the girls⁠ ⁠… improving the world⁠ ⁠… leaving it better than you found it⁠ ⁠… the importance of life⁠ ⁠… sleeping and dreaming that life was beauty and waking and finding it was duty⁠ ⁠… making things better, reforming⁠ ⁠… being a reformer.⁠ ⁠… Pater always said young people always wanted to reform the universe⁠ ⁠… perhaps it was so⁠ ⁠… and nothing could be done. Clearly she was not the one to do anything. She could do nothing even with these girls and she was nearly eighteen.

Once or twice she wondered whether they ever had thoughts about things⁠ ⁠… she felt they must; if only she were not shy, if she had a different manner, she would find out. She knew she despised them as they were. She could do nothing. Her fine ideas were no good. She did less than silly little Mademoiselle. And all the time Fräulein thinking she was talking and influencing them was keeping her⁠ ⁠… in Germany.

VI

Fräulein Pfaff came to the breakfast table a little late in a grey stuff dress with a cream-coloured ruching about the collar-band and ruchings against her long brown wrists. The girls were already in their places, and as soon as grace was said she began talking in a gentle decisive voice.

“Martins’ sponge bags”⁠—her face creased for her cavernous smile⁠—“are both large and strong⁠—beautiful gummi-bags, each large enough to contain a family of sponges.”

The table listened intently. Miriam tried to remember the condition of her side of the garret. She saw Judy’s scarlet flush across the table.

“Millie,” went on Fräulein, “is the owner of a damp-proof holdall for the bath which is a