all this coming and crowding of mean little things? But the wide untroubled leisure of the Brooms breakfast-table was shut away from the mean little things. … Are you coming to church Miriam?—Miriam looked across the doomed breakfast-table and met the watchful eyes. Behind Florrie very upright in her good, once best stuff dress, two years old in its features and methodically arrived at morning wear, the fire still blazed its extravagant welcome, the first of Christmas morning was still in the room. When they had all busied themselves and gone, it would be gone. She glanced about to see that everyone had finished and put her elbows on the table.—Well she said abundantly. There was an expectant relaxing of attitudes—I should like to go very much. But—Grace fidgeting her brooch had flung her unrestrained burning affectionate glance—when I saw Mr. La Trobe climbing into the pulpit—Florrie’s eyes were downcast and Mrs. Philps was blowing her nose her eyes gazing wanly out above her handkerchief towards the little curtained bow-window—Miriam dimpled and glanced sideways at Grace catching her shy waiting eyes—I should stand up on my seat … give one loud shriek—the three laughters broke forth together—and fall gasping to the ground—Then you’d certainly better not go chuckled Florrie amidst the general wiping away of tears—I saw the Miss Pernes at Strudwick’s on Friday; Miss Perne and Miss Jenny—oh, did you responded Miriam hurriedly. The room lost something of its completeness. There was a coming and a going, the pressing grey of an outside world—How are they?⸺They seemed very well—They don’t seem to change—Oh; I’m so glad—They asked for you—Oh⸺I didn’t say we were expecting you—Oh, it’s such an age—We always say you’re very busy and hard-worked smiled Grace—Yes, that’s it. … —You didn’t go often even when Miss Haddie was alive—No; she was awfully good; she used to come down and see me in the west-end when I first came to town.—How they like the west-end—Aunt, I don’t blame them.—She used to write to you a lot didn’t she Miriam?—She used to come and talk to me in a teashop at six-fifteen … yes she wrote regularly said Miriam irritably—You were awfully fond of Miss Haddie weren’t you?—Miriam peered into space struggling with a tangle of statements. Her mind leapt from incident to incident weaving all into a general impression—so strong and clear that it gave a sort of desperation to her painful consciousness that nothing she saw and felt was visible to the three pairs of differently watchful eyes. Poured chaotically out it would sound to them like the ravings of insanity. All contradictory, up and down backwards and forwards, all true. The things they would grasp here and there would misrepresent herself and the whole picture. Why would people insist upon talking about things—when nothing can ever be communicated. … She felt angrily about in the expectant stillness. She could see their minds so clearly; why wouldn’t they just look and see hers instead of waiting for some impossible pronouncement. Yes would be a lie. No would be a lie. Any statement would be a lie. All statements are lies. I like the Pernes better than I like you. I like all of you better than the Pernes. I hate you. I hate the Pernes. I, of course you must know it, hate everybody. I adore the Pernes so much that I can’t go and see them. But you come and see us. Yes; but you insist. Then you like us only as well as you like the Pernes; you like all sorts of people as well perhaps better than you like us. I have nothing to do with anyone. You shall not group me anywhere. I am everywhere. Let the day go on. Don’t sit there worrying me to death. … —They always send you their love and say you are to go and see them—Oh yes, I must go; some time—They are wonderfully fond of their girls. … It’s one of the greatest pleasures of their lives keeping up with the old girls—Fatigue was returning upon Miriam; her face flushed and her hands were large and cold. She drew them down on to her unowned knees. A mild yes would bring the sitting to an end.—But you see I’m not an old girl she said impatiently. No one spoke. Florrie’s mind was darkly moving towards the things of the day. Perhaps Mrs. Philps and Florrie had been thinking of them for some minutes.—You know it does make a difference she pursued, obsequiously collecting attention—when people are your employers. You can never feel the same—Everyone hovered—and Mrs. Philps smiled in triumphant curiosity.—I shouldn’t have thought it made any difference to you Miriam said Florrie flushing heavily.—I think I know what Miriam means said Grace gently radiating—I always feel a pupil with them much as I like them—Grace, d’you know you’re my pupil said Miriam leaping out into laughter.—I can see Grace—she drove on carrying them all with her, ignoring the swift eyes upon the dim things settling heavily down upon her heart—gazing out of the window in the little room where I was supposed to be holding a German class—Yes I know Miriam darling, but now you know me you know I could never be any good at languages—You’re my pupil—It seems absurd to think of you as a teacher now we know you chuckled Florrie.—Aren’t you glad it’s over, Miriam?⸺I loved the teaching. I’ve never left off longing to go back to school myself yawned Miriam absently.—You won’t get much sympathy out of Florrie—I was a perfect fool beamed Florrie. Everyone laughed.—I often think now—chuckled Florrie rosy and tearful—when I open the front door to go out how glad I am there’s no more school—Miriam looked across laughing affectionately.—Why did you like your school so much Miriam?—I didn’t like it except now and again terrifically in flashes. I didn’t know what it was. I hadn’t seen other schools. I didn’t know what we were doing—It wasn’t—a—a genteel school for young ladies, there
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