Fräulein rose and stood, tall. Then her half-tottering decorous footsteps began. Miriam had hardly listened to her last words. She felt tears of anger rising and tried to smile.
“I shall say now no more. But when you shall hear from your good parents, we can further discuss our plans.” Fräulein was at the door.
Fräulein left the Saal by the small door and Miriam felt her way to the schoolroom. The girls were gathering there ready for a walk. Some were in the hall and Fräulein’s voice was giving instructions: “Machen Sie schnell, Miss Henderson,” she called.
Fräulein had never before called to her like that. It had always been as if she did not see her but assumed her ready to fall in with the general movements.
Now it was Fräulein calling to her as she might do to Gertrude or Solomon. There was no hurried whisper from Jimmie telling her to “fly for her life.”
“Ja, Fräulein,” she cried gaily and blundered towards the basement stairs. Mademoiselle was standing averted at the head of them; Miriam glanced at her. Her face was red and swollen with crying.
The sight amazed Miriam. She considered the swollen suffusion under the large black hat as she ran downstairs. She hoped Mademoiselle did not see her glance. … Mademoiselle, standing there all disfigured and blotchy about something … it was nothing … it couldn’t be anything. … If anyone were dead she would not be standing there … it was just some silly prim French quirk … her dignity … someone had been “grossière” … and there she stood in her black hat and black cotton gloves. … Hurriedly putting on her hat and long lace scarf she decided that she would not change her shoes. Somewhere out in the sunshine a hurdy-gurdy piped out the air of “Dass du mich liebst, das wusst’ ich.” She glanced at the frosted barred window through which the dim light came into the dressing room. The piping notes, out of tune, wrongly emphasised, slurring one into the other, followed her across the dark basement hall and came faintly to her as she went slowly upstairs. There was no hurry. Everyone was talking busily in the hall, drowning the sound of her footsteps. She had forgotten her gloves. She went back into the cool grey musty rooms. A little crack in an upper pane shone like a gold thread. The barrel organ piped. As she stooped to gather up her gloves from the floor she felt the cold stone firm and secure under her hand. And the house stood up all round her with its rooms and the light lying along stairways and passages, and outside the bright hot sunshine and the roadways leading in all directions, out into Germany.
How could Fräulein possibly think she could afford to go to Norderney? They would all go. Things would go on. She could not go there—nor back to England. It was cruel … just torture and worry again … with the bright house all round her—the high rooms, the dark old pianos, strange old garret, the unopened door beyond it. No help anywhere.
As they walked she laughed and talked with the girls, responding excitedly to all that was said. They walked along a broad and almost empty boulevard in two rows of four and five abreast, with Mademoiselle and Judy bringing up the rear. The talk was general and there was much laughter. It was the kind of interchange that arose when they were all together and there was anything “in the air,” the kind that Miriam most disliked. She joined in it feverishly. It’s perfectly natural that they should all be excited about the holidays she told herself, stifling her thoughts. But it must not go too far. They wanted to be jolly. … If I could be jolly too they would like me. I must not be a wet blanket. … Mademoiselle’s voice was not heard. Miriam felt that the steering of the conversation might fall to anyone. Mademoiselle was extinguished. She must exert her influence. Presently she forgot Mademoiselle’s presence altogether. They were all walking along very quickly. … If she were going to Norderney with the English girls she must be on easy terms with them.
“Ah, ha!” somebody was saying.
“Oh‑ho!” said Miriam in response.
“Ih‑hi!” came another voice.
“Tre‑la‑la,” trilled Bertha Martin gently.
“You mean Turrah‑lahee‑tee,” said Miriam.
“Good for you, Hendy,” blared Gertrude, in a swinging middle tone.
“Chalk it up. Chalk it up, children,” giggled Jimmie.
Millie looked pensively about her with vague disapproval. Her eyebrows were up. It seemed as if anything might happen; as if at any moment they might all begin running in different directions.
“Cave, my dear brats, be artig,” came Bertha’s cool even tones.
“Ah! we are observed.”
“No, we are not observed. The observer observeth not.”
Miriam saw her companions looking across the boulevard.
Following their eyes she found the figure of Pastor Lahmann walking swiftly bag in hand in the direction of an opening into a side street.
“Ah!” she cried gaily. “Voilà Monsieur; courrez, Mademoiselle!”
At once she felt that it was cruel to draw attention to Mademoiselle when she was dumpy and upset.
“What a fool I am,” she moaned in her mind. “Why can’t I say the right thing?”
“Ce n’est pas moi,” said Mademoiselle, “qui fait les avances.”
The group walked on for a moment or two in silence. Bertha Martin was swinging her left foot out across the curb with each step, giving her right heel
