“But one must keep an open mind.”
“Are you familiar with Professor Tyndall?”
“Only by meeting him in books about Huxley.”
“Ah—he was very different; very different.”
“Huxley,” said Miriam with intense bitterness “was an egoistic adolescent—all his life. I never came across anything like his conceited complacency in my life. The very look of his side-whiskers—well, there you have the whole man.” Her heart burned and ached, beating out the words. She rose to go holding the volume in hands that shook to the beating of her heart. Far away in the bitter mist of the darkening room was the strange little figure.
“Let me just write your name in the book.”
“Oh, well, really, it is too bad—thank you very much.”
He carried the book to the windowsill and stood writing, his bent head very dark and round in the feeble grey light. Happy monk alone up under the roof with his Plato. It was a shame.
XXXIII
“What a huge room?”
“Isn’t it a big room. Come in young lady.”
Miriam crossed to the fireplace through a warm faintly sweet atmosphere. A small fire was smoking and the gas was partly turned down but the room was warm with a friendly brown warmth. Something had made her linger in the hall until Mrs. Bailey had come to the dining-room door and stood there with the door wide open and something to communicate waiting behind her friendly greetings. As a rule there was nothing behind her friendly greetings but friendly approval and assurance. Miriam had never seen the dining-room door open before and sought distraction from the communicativeness by drifting towards it and peering in. Once in and sitting in the chair between the fireplace and Mrs. Bailey’s tumbled workbasket standing on the edge of the long table, bound to stay taking in the room until Mrs. Bailey returned, she regretted looking in. The hall and the stairs and her own room would be changed now she knew what this room was like. In her fatigue she looked about half taking in half recoiling from the contents of the room. “He stopped and got off his bicycle and I said you don’t seem very pleased to see me.” Already he knew that they were tiresome strangers to each other. “I can’t go dancing off to Bournemouth at a moment’s notice, dear.” “Well, I strongly advise you to go as soon as you can.” “Of course I’m going, but I can’t just dance off.” “Don’t let him get into the habit of associating you with the idea of worry.” If she didn’t worry him and was always a little ill, and pretty … “he says he can’t do without her. I’ve told him without reserve what the chances are and given them my blessing.” Did he really feel that suddenly sitting there in the consulting-room? If only she wouldn’t be so mysterious and important about nothing. …
There was a hugeness in the room, radiating from the three-armed dim-globed chandelier, going up and up; to the high heavily-moulded smoke-grimed ceiling, spreading out right and left along the length of the room, a large enclosed quietness, flowing up to the two great windows, hovering up and down the dingy rep and dingy lace curtains and the drab coloured venetian blinds through whose chinks the street came in. Tansley Street was there, pressing its secret peace against the closed windows. Between the windows a long strip of mirror framed in tarnished gilt, reflected the peace of the room. Miriam glanced about peering for its secret; her eye running over the length of the faded patterned deep fringed table cover, the large cracked pink bowl in the centre, holding an aspidistra … brown cracked leaves sticking out; the faded upholstery of the armchair opposite her, the rows of dining-room chairs across the way in line with the horsehair sofa; the piano in the space between the sofa and the window; the huge mirror in the battered tarnished gilt frame sweeping halfway up the wall above the mantelpiece, reflecting the pictures and engravings hung rather high on the opposite wall, bought and liked long ago, the faded hearthrug under her feet, the more faded carpet disappearing under the long table, the dark stare of the fireplace, the heavy marble mantelpiece, the marble cased clock and opaque pink glass fat-bodied jugs scrolled with a dingy pattern, dusty lustres, curious objects in dull metal. …
“It’ll give my chicks a better chance. It isn’t fair on them—living in the kitchen and seeing nobody.”
“And you mean to risk sending the lodgers away.”
“I’ve been thinking about it some time. When the dining-room left I thought I wouldn’t fill up again. Miss Campbell’s going too.”
“Miss Campbell?”
“The drawn-room and drawn-room bedroom … my word … had her rooms turned out every week, carpets up and all.”
“Every week!”
“Always talking about microbes. My word.”
“How awful. And all the other people?”
“I’ve written them,” smiled Mrs. Bailey at her busily interlacing fingers.
“Oh.”
“For the 14th prox; they’re all weekly.”
“Then if they don’t stay as boarders they’ll have to trot out at once.”
“Well I thought if I was going to begin I’d better take the bull by the horns. I’ve heard of two. Norwegian young gentlemen. They’re coming next week and they both want large bedrooms.”
“I think it’s awfully plucky if you’ve had no experience.”
“Well, young lady, I see it like this. What others have done, I can. I feel I must do something for the children. Mrs. Reynolds has married three of her daughters to boarders. She’s giving up. Elsie is going into the typing.”
“You haven’t written to me.”
“You stay where you are, young lady.”
“Well—I think it’s awfully sweet of you Mrs. Bailey.”
“Don’t you think about that. It needn’t make any difference to you.”
“Well—of course—if you heard of a boarder—”
Mrs. Bailey made a little dab at Miriam’s knee. “You stay where you are, my dear.”
“I do hope it will be a success. The house will be completely changed.”
“I know it’s a risk. But if you get on it pays better. There’s less work in it and
