There was a large bunch of black grapes on the little table by the bedside, and a book.
“Hullo you literary female,” said Miriam seizing it … Red Pottage … a curious novelish name, difficult to understand. Miss Dear sat up, straight and brisk, blooming smiles. What an easy life. The light changing in the room and people bringing novels and grapes, smart new novels that people were reading.
“What did you do at lunch time, dear?”
“Oh I had to go and see a female unexpectedly.”
“I found your note and thought perhaps you had called in at Baker Street.”
“At your Association, d’you mean? Oh, my dear lady.”
Miriam shook her thoughts about, pushing back. “She owes money to almost every nurse in this house and seems to have given in in every way” and bringing forward “one of our very best nurses for five years.”
“Oh, I went to see the woman in Queen Square this morning.”
“I know you did dear.” Miss Dear bridled in her secret way, averted, and preparing to speak. It was over. She did not seem to mind. “I liked her,” said Miriam hastily, leaping across the gap, longing to know what had been done, beating out anywhere to rid her face of the lines of shame. She was sitting before a judge … being looked through and through. … Noo, Tonalt, suggest a tow-pic. …
“She’s a sweet woman,” said Miss Dear patronisingly.
“She’s brought you some nice things,” … poverty was worse if you were not poor enough. …
“Oh no dear. The curate brought these. He called twice this morning. You did me a good turn. He’s a real friend.”
“Oh—oh, I’m so glad.”
“Yes—he’s a nice little man. He was most dreadfully upset.”
“What can he do?”
“How do you mean dear?”
“Well, in general?”
“He’s going to do everything, dear. I’m not to worry.”
“How splendid!”
“He came in first thing and saw how things stood, and came in again at the end of the morning with these things. He’s sending me some wine, from his own cellar.”
Miriam gazed, her thoughts tumbling incoherently.
“He was most dreadfully upset. He could not write his sermon. He kept thinking it might be one of his own sisters in the same sitawation. He couldn’t rest till he came back.”
Standing back … all the time … delicately preparing to speak … presiding over them all … over herself too. …
“He’s a real friend.”
“Have you looked at the book?” There was nothing more to do.
“No, dear. He said it had interested him very much. He reads them for his sermons you see” … she put out her hand and touched the volume … John’s books … Henry is so interested in photography … unknowing patronising respectful gestures. … “Poor little man. He was dreadfully upset.”
“We’d better read it.”
“What time are you coming, dear?”
“Oh—well.”
“I’m to have my meals regular. Mr. Taunton has seen the landlady. I wish I could ask you to join me. But he’s been so generous. I mustn’t run expenses up you see, dear.”
“Of course not. I’ll come in after supper. I’m not quite sure about tonight.”
“Well—I hope I shall see you on Saturday. I can give you tea.”
“I’m going away for the weekend. I’ve put it off and off. I must go this week.”
Miss Dear frowned. “Well dear, come in and see me on your way.”
Miss Dear sat down with an indrawn breath.
Miriam drew her Gladstone bag a little closer. “I have only a second.”
“All right, dear. You’ve only just come.”
It was as if nothing had happened the whole week. She was not going to say anything. She was ill again just in time for the weekend. She looked fearfully ill. Was she ill? The room was horrible—desolate and angry. …
Miriam sat listening to the indrawn breathings.
“What is the matter?”
“It’s my epileptiform neuralgia again. I thought Dr. Ashley-Densley would have been in. I suppose he’s off for the weekend.”
She lay back pale and lifeless looking with her eyes closed.
“All right, I won’t go, that’s about it,” said Miriam angrily.
“Have another cup, dear. He said the picture was like me and like my name. He thinks it’s the right name for me—‘you’ll always be able to inspire affection,’ he said.”
“Yes that’s true.”
“He wants me to change my first name. He thought Eleanor would be pretty.”
“I say; look here.”
“Of course I can’t make any decision until I know certain things.”
“D’you mean to say … goodness!”
Miss Dear chuckled indulgently, making little brisk movements about the tea-tray.
“So I’m to be called Eleanor Dear. He’s a dear little man. I’m very fond of him. But there is an earlier friend.”
“Oh—”
“I thought you’d help me out.”
“I?”
“Well dear, I thought you wouldn’t mind calling and finding out for me how the land lies.”
Miriam’s eyes fixed the inexorable shapely outlines of the tall figure. That dignity would never go; but there was something, that would never come … there would be nothing but fuss and mystification for the man. She would have a house and a dignified life. He, at home, would have death. But these were the women. But she had liked the book. There was something in it she had felt. But a man reading, seeing only bits and points of view, would never find that faraway something. She would hold the man by being everlastingly mysteriously up to something or other behind a smile. He would grow sick to death of mysterious nothings; of things always centering in her, leaving everything else outside her dignity. Appalling. What was she doing all the time, bringing one’s eyes back and back each time after one had angrily given in, to question the ruffles of her hair and the way she stood and walked and prepared to speak.
“Oh … ! of course I will—you wicked woman.”
“It’s very puzzling. You see he’s the earlier friend.”
“You think if he knew he had a rival. Of course. Quite right.”
“Well, dear, I think he ought to know.”
“So I’m to be your mamma. What a lark.”
Miss Dear shed a fond look. “I want you to meet my little
