“Isn’t it ghastly—for all of us?” Miriam felt treacherously outspoken. It was a relief to be going away. She knew that this sense of relief made her able to speak. “It’s never knowing that’s so awful. Perhaps he’ll get some more money presently and things’ll go on again. Fancy mother having it always, ever since we were babies.”
“Don’t, Mim.”
“All right. I won’t tell you the words he said, how he put it about the difficulty of getting the money for my things.”
“Don’t, Mim.”
Miriam’s mind went back to the phrase and her mother’s agonised face. She felt utterly desolate in the warm room.
“I wish I’d got brains,” chirped Harriett, poking the fire with the toe of her boot.
“So you have—more than me.”
“Oh—reely.”
“You know, I know girls, that things are as absolutely ghastly this time as they can possibly be and that something must be done. … But you know it’s perfectly fearful to face that old school when it comes to the point.”
“Oh, my dear, it’ll be lovely,” said Eve; “all new and jolly, and think how you will enjoy those lectures, you’ll simply love them.”
“It’s all very well to say that. You know you’d feel ill with fright.”
“It’ll be all right—for you—once you’re there.”
Miriam stared into the fire and began to murmur shamefacedly.
“No more all day bézique. … No more days in the West End. … No more matinées … no more exhibitions … no more A.B.C. teas … no more insane times … no more anything.”
“What about holidays? You’ll enjoy them all the more.”
“I shall be staid and governessy.”
“You mustn’t. You must be frivolous.”
Two deeply-burrowing dimples fastened the clean skin tightly over the bulge of Miriam’s smile.
“And marry a German professor,” she intoned blithely.
“Don’t—don’t for goodney say that before mother, Miriam.”
“D’you mean she minds me going?”
“My dear!”
Why did Eve use her cross voice?—stupid … “for goodness’ sake,” not “for goodney.” Silly of Eve to talk slang. …
“All right. I won’t.”
“Won’t marry a German professor, or won’t tell mother, do you mean? … Oo—Crumbs! My old cake in the oven!” Harriett hopped to the door.
“Funny Harriett taking to cookery. It doesn’t seem a bit like her.”
“She’ll have to do something—so shall I, I s’pose.”
“It seems awful.”
“We shall simply have to.”
“It’s awful,” said Miriam, shivering.
“Poor old girl. I expect you feel horrid because you’re tired with all the packing and excitement.”
“Oh well, anyhow, it’s simply ghastly.”
“You’ll feel better tomorrow.”
“D’you think I shall?”
“Yes—you’re so strong,” said Eve, flushing and examining her nails.
“How d’you mean?”
“Oh—all sorts of ways.”
“What way?”
“Oh—well—you arranging all this—I mean answering the advertisement and settling it all.”
“Oh well, you know you backed me up.”
“Oh yes, but other things. …”
“What?”
“Oh, I was thinking about you having no religion.”
“Oh.”
“You must have such splendid principles to keep you straight,” said Eve, and cleared her throat, “I mean, you must have such a lot in you.”
“Me?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I don’t know where it comes in. What have I done?”
“Oh, well, it isn’t so much what you’ve done—you have such a good time. … Everybody admires you and all that … you know what I mean—you’re so clever. … You’re always in the right.”
“That’s just what everybody hates!”
“Well, my dear, I wish I had your mind.”
“You needn’t,” said Miriam.
“You’re all right—you’ll come out all right. You’re one of those strong-minded people who have to go through a period of doubt.”
“But, my dear,” said Miriam grateful and proud, “I feel such a humbug. You know when I wrote that letter to the Fräulein I said I was a member of the Church. I know what it will be, I shall have to take the English girls to church.”
“Oh, well, you won’t mind that.”
“It will make me simply ill—I could never describe to you,” said Miriam, with her face aglow, “what it is to me to hear some silly man drone away with an undistributed middle term.”
“They’re not all like that.”
“Oh, well, then it will be ignoratio elenchi or argumentum ad hominem—”
“Oh, yes, but they’re not the service.”
“The service I can’t make head or tail of—think of the Athanasian.”
“Yes.” Eve stirred uneasily and began to execute a gentle scale with her tiny tightly-knit blue and white hand upon her knee.
“It’ll be ghastly,” continued Miriam, “not having anyone to pour out to—I’ve told you such a lot these last few days.”
“Yes, hasn’t it been funny? I seem to know you all at once so much better.”
“Well—don’t you think I’m perfectly hateful?”
“No. I admire you more than ever. I think you’re simply splendid.”
“Then you simply don’t know me.”
“Yes I do. And you’ll be able to write to me.”
Eve, easily weeping, hugged her and whispered, “You mustn’t. I can’t see you break down—don’t—don’t—don’t. We can’t be blue your last night. … Think of nice things. … There will be nice things again … there will, will, will, will.”
Miriam pursed her lips to a tight bunch and sat twisting her long thickish fingers. Eve stood up in her tears. Her smile and the curves of her mouth were unchanged by her weeping, and the crimson had spread and deepened a little in the long oval of her face. Miriam watched the changing crimson. Her eyes went to and fro between it and the neatly pinned masses of brown hair.
“I’m going to get some hot water,” said Eve, “and we’ll make ourselves glorious.”
Miriam watched her as she went down the long room—the great oval of dark hair, the narrow neck, the narrow back, tight, plump little hands hanging in profile, white, with a purple pad near the wrist.
When Miriam woke the next morning she lay still with closed eyes. She had dreamed that she had been standing in a room in the German school and the staff had crowded round her, looking at her. They had dreadful eyes—eyes like the eyes of hostesses she remembered, eyes she had seen in trains and ’buses, eyes from the old school. They came and stood and looked at her, and saw her as she was, without courage, without funds or good clothes or beauty, without charm or interest, without even the skill to play a part. They
