She saw the girls seated at a table at the far end of the big restaurant and shyly advanced.
“Hulloh child!”
“What you having?” she asked sitting down opposite to them. The empty white tablecloth shone under a brilliant incandescent light; far away down the vista the door opened on the daylit street.
“Isn’t it a glorious Spring evening?” Spring? It was, of course. Everyone had been saying the spring would never come, but today it was very warm. Spring was here of course. Perspiring in a dusty cycling school and sitting in a hot restaurant was not spring. Spring was somewhere far away. Going to stay and talk in people’s houses did not bring Spring—landscapes belonging to people were painted; you must be alone … or perhaps at the Brooms. Perhaps next weekend at the Brooms would be in time for the spring; in their back garden, the watered green lawn and the sweetbriar and the distant trees in the large garden beyond the fence. In London it was better not to think about the times of year.
But Mag seemed to find Spring in London. Her face was all glowing with the sense of it.
“What you having?”
“Have you observed with what a remarkable brilliance the tender green shines out against the soot-black branches?” Yes, that was wonderful but what was the joke?
“Every spring I have spent in Lonndonn I have heard that remark at least fifty times.”
Miriam laughed politely. “Jan, what have you ordered?”
“We’ve ordered beef my child, cold beefs and salads.”
“Do you think I should like salad?”
“If you had a brother would he like salad?”
“Do they put dressing on it? If I could have just plain lettuce.”
“Ask for it my child, ask and it shall be given unto thee.”
A waitress brought the beef and salad, two glasses with an inch of whisky in each, and a large syphon.
Miriam ordered beef and potatoes.
“I suppose the steak and onion days are over.”
“I shan’t have another steak and onions, please God, until next November.”
Miriam laughed delightedly.
“Why haven’t you gone away for the weekend, child?”
“I told you she wouldn’t.”
“I don’t know. I wanted to come down here.”
“Is that a compliment to us?”
“I say, I’ve had a bicycle lesson.”
Both faces came up eagerly.
“You remember; that extraordinary woman I met at the Royal Institution.”
The faces looked at each other.
“Oh you know; I told you about it—the two lessons she didn’t want.”
“Go on my child; we remember; go on.”
Miriam sat eating her beef.
“Go on Miriam. You’ve really had a lesson. I’m delighted my child. Tell us all about it.”
“D’you remember the extraordinary moment when you felt the machine going along; even with the man holding the handlebars?”
“You wait until there’s nobody to hold the handlebars.”
“Have you been out alone yet?”
The two faces looked at each other.
“Shall we tell her?”
“You must tell me; es ist bestimmt in Gottes Rath.” They leaned across the table and spoke low one after the other. “We went out—last night—after dark—and rode—round Russell Square—twice—in our knickers—”
“No. Did you really? How simply heavenly.”
“It was. We came home nearly crying with rage at not being able to go about, permanently, in nothing but knickers. It would make life an absolutely different thing.”
“The freedom of movement.”
“Exactly. You feel like a sprite you are so light.”
“And like a poet though you don’t know it.”
“You feel like a sprite you are so light, and you feel so strong and capable and so broadshouldered you could knock down a policeman. Jan and I knocked down several last night.”
“Yes; and it is not only that; think of never having to brush your skirt.”
“I know. It would be bliss.”
“I spend half my life brushing my skirt. If I miss a day I notice it—if I miss two days the office notices it. If I miss three days the public notices it.”
“La vie est dure; pour les femmes.”
“You don’t want to be a man Jan.”
“Oh I do, sometimes. They have the best of everything all round.”
“I don’t. I wouldn’t be a man for anything. I wouldn’t have a man’s—consciousness, for anything.”
“Why not asthore?”
“They’re too absolutely pigheaded and silly. …”
“Isn’t she intolerant?”
Miriam sat flaring. That was not the right answer. There was something; and they must know it; but they would not admit it.
“Then you can both really ride?”
“We do nothing else; we’ve given up walking; we no longer walk up and downstairs; we ride.”
Miriam laughed her delight. “I can quite understand; it alters everything. I realised that this afternoon at the school. To be able to bicycle would make life utterly different; on a bicycle you feel a different person; nothing can come near you, you forget who you are. Aren’t you glad you are alive today, when all these things are happening?”
“What things little one?”
“Well cycling and things. You know, girls, when I’m thirty I’m going to cut my hair short and wear divided skirts.”
Both faces came up.
“Why on earth?”
“I can’t face doing my hair and brushing skirts and keeping more or less in the fashion, that means about two years behind because I never realise fashions till they’re just going, even if I could afford to—all my life.”
“Then why not do it now?”
“Because all my friends and relatives would object. It would worry them too—they would feel quite sure then I should never marry—and they still entertain hopes, secretly.”
“Don’t you want to marry—ever; ever?”
“Well—it would mean giving up this life.”
“Yes, I know. I agree there. That can’t be faced.”
“I should think not. Aren’t you going to have any pudding?”
“But why thirty? Why not thirty-one?”
“Because nobody cares what you do when you’re thirty; they’ve all given up hope by that time. Aren’t you two going to have any pudding?”
“No. But that is no reason why you should not.”
“What a
