“Did you have a pleasant weekend?”
“Very,” said Miriam emphatically.
There was a squeak at the side of the cabinet. “Yes,” said Miriam down the speaking tube. … “Thank you. Will you please bring up some tubes and serviettes.”
“Mr. Wontner.”
“Thank you.” … “Mrs. Hermann is ‘frightfully shocked’ at the amount of her account. What did we send it in for?”
“Seventy guineas. It’s a reduction, and it’s two years’ work for the whole family.” The bell sounded again. … “Lady Cazalet has bad toothache and can you see her at once.”
“Confound. … Will you go down and talk to her and see if you can get one of the others to see her.”
“She won’t.”
“Well then she must wait. I’ll have Mr. Wontner up.” Miriam rang. Mr. Hancock began busily washing his hands. The patient came in. He greeted him over his shoulder. Miriam gathered up the sheaf of annotated letters and the appointment book and ran downstairs. “Has Mr. Leyton a patient Emma?” “Miss Jones just gone in, Miss.” “Oh, Emma, will you ask the workshop for Mr. Hancock’s rubber and clamps?” She rang through to Mr. Leyton’s room. “There’s a patient of Mr. Hancock’s in pain, can you see them if I can persuade them?” she murmured. “Right, in ten minutes,” came the answering murmur. Mr. Hancock’s bell sounded from her room. She went to his tube in the hall. “Can I have my charts?” Running into her room she hunted out the first chart from a case full and ran upstairs with it. Mr. Hancock’s patient was sitting forward in the chair urging the adoption of the decimal system. Running down again she went into the waiting room. The dark Turkey carpeted oak furnished length seemed full of seated forms. Miriam peered and Lady Cazalet, with her hat already off rose from the deep armchair at her side. “Can he see me?” she said in a clear trembling undertone, her dark eyes wide upon Miriam’s. Miriam gazed deep into the limpid fear. What a privilege. How often Captain Cazalet must be beside himself with unworthiness. “Yes, if you can wait a little,” she said dropping her eyes and standing with arms restrained. “I think it won’t be very long,” she added lingering a moment as the little form relapsed into the chair.
“Lady Cazalet will wait until you can see her,” she tubed up to Mr. Hancock.
“Can’t you make her see one of the others?”
“I’m afraid it’s impossible; I’ll tell you later.”
“Well I’ll see her as soon as I can. I’m afraid she’ll have to wait.”
Miriam went back to her room to sort out the remaining charts. On her table lay a broken denture in a faded morocco case; a strip of paper directed “five-thirty sharp” in Mr. Orly’s handwriting. Mr. Leyton’s door burst open. He came with flying coattails.
“Vi got to see that patient of Mr. Hancock’s,” he asked breathlessly.
“No,” said Miriam, “she won’t.”
“Right,” he said swinging back. “I’ll keep Miss Jones on.”
Mr. Hancock’s bell sounded again. Miriam flew to the tube.
“My clamps please.”
“Oh yes,” she answered shocked, and hurried back to her room.
Gathering up the broken denture she ran down the stone steps leading to the basement. Her cheap unyielding shoes clattered on the unyielding stones. The gas was on in the lunch room, Mrs. Willis scrubbing the floor. The voices of the servants came from the kitchens in the unknown background. She passed the lunch room and the cellar and clamped on across the stone hall to the open door of the workshop.
Winthrop was standing at the small furnace in the box-lined passageway. It was roaring its loudest. Through its open door the red light fell sharply on his pink-flushed face and drooping fair moustache and poured down over his white apron. “Good ph‑morning,” he said pleasantly, his eye on the heart of the furnace, his foot briskly pumping the blower. From the body of the room came sounds of tapping and whistling … the noise of the furnace prevented their knowing that anyone had come in. … Miriam drew near to the furnace, relieved at the shortness of her excursion. She stared at the tiny shape blazing red-gold at the heart of the glare. Winthrop gathered up a pair of tongs and drew the mould from the little square of light. The air hissed from the bellows and the roaring of the flames died down. In a moment he was standing free with hot face and hot patient ironic eyes, gently taking the denture from her hands. “Good morning,” said Miriam, “Oh, Mr. Winthrop, it’s a repair for Mr. Orly. It’s urgent. Can you manage it?” “It’s ph‑ph‑sure to be urgent,” said Winthrop examining the denture with a shortsighted frown. Miriam waited anxiously. The hammering and whistling had ceased. “It’ll be all right, Miss Ph‑Henderson,” said Winthrop encouragingly. She turned to the door. The clamps. … Gathering herself together she went down the passage and stood at the head of the two stone steps leading down into the body of the room. A swift scrubbing of
