“I say.”
“What do you say,” responded Miriam without looking up from her soup. Mr. Leyton had a topic; she could keep it going with half her attention and go restfully on, fortifying herself for the afternoon. She would attack him about the book one day next week. …
“I say. What say you George?”
“Me? All right. I say, I say, I say, anything you like m’lord.”
Miriam looked up. Mr. Leyton was gazing and grinning.
“What’s the matter?” she snapped. His eyes were on her toque.
“Where did you get that hat? Where did you get that tile,” sang the cousin absently, busy with his lunch.
“I made it if you must know,” said Miriam. The cousin looked across; large expressionless opinionless eyes.
“Going out in it?” What was the matter; Mr. Leyton had never noticed anything of hers before; either it was too awful, or really rather effective and he unconsciously resented the fact of her going about in an effect.
“Why not?”
“Well; looks rather like a musical comedy.”
“Cheek,” observed the cousin; “I do call that cool cheek; you’re balmy, Leyton.” Mr. Leyton looked no more; that was his genuine brotherly opinion; he thought the toque showy. It was the two wings, meeting in the middle of the front; he meant pantomime; he did not know the wings were cheap; he was shocked by the effectiveness; it was effective; cheap and hateful; but it suited her; pantomime effects were becoming. Where was the objection?
“That’s all right. I’m glad. I like musical comedies.”
“Oh; if you’re satisfied. If you don’t mind looking risky.”
“I say, look here old man, steady on,” blushed the cousin.
“Well. What do you think yourself? Come on.”
“I think it’s jolly pretty.”
“I think it’s jolly fast.”
Miriam was quite satisfied. The cousin’s opinion went for nothing; a boy would like pantomime effects. But the hat was neither ugly nor dowdy. She would be able to tear down Oxford Street, no matter how ugly the cold made her feel, looking fast. It would help her to carry off meeting Mr. Shatov. He would not notice hats. But the extraordinary, rather touching thing was that Mr. Leyton should trouble at all. As if she belonged to his world and he were in some way responsible.
“All right Mr. Leyton; it’s fast; whatever that may mean.”
“Old Leyton thinks hats ought to be slow.”
“Look here young fellow me lad, you teach your—”
“Great-grandfather not to be rude.”
“I fail to see the rudeness; I’ve merely expressed an opinion and I believe Miss Henderson agrees with it.”
“Oh absolutely; ab‑solute‑ly;” chanted Miriam scornfully. “Pray don’t worry about the pace of my millinery Mr. Leyton.” That was quite good, like a society novel. …
“Well as I say if you’re satisfied.”
“Ah. That’s another matter. The next time I want a hat I’ll go to Bond Street. So easy and simple.”
“Seen the paper today, George?”
“Paper? Noospaper? No time.”
“Seen the B.M.J.?”
“No sir.”
“And you an aspiring medico.”
“Should be an expiring medico,” yodelled George, “if I read all those effusions.”
“Well. More disclosures from Schenck.”
“Who’s he, when he’s at home?”
“You know. Schenck, man; Schenk. You know.”
“Oh, sorry; all right. What’s he babbling about now?”
“Same thing; only more of it,” giggled Mr. Leyton.
“If it’s half past I must go,” announced Miriam peremptorily. Two watches came out.
“Then I advise you to hook it pretty sharp; it’s twenty to. You’d better read that article my son.” Miriam folded her serviette.
“Righto. Don’t worry.”
“Why all this mystery? Good morning,” said Miriam departing.
“Good morning,” said the two voices. Mr. Leyton held the door open and raised his voice to follow her up the stairs. “We’re discussing matters somewhat beyond your ken.”
She could not stay. She could not have tackled him if she had stayed. Anger was perhaps as funny as embarrassment. He would have been shocked at the idea of her quietly considering the results of Schenck’s theory, if it proved to be true; beyond her ken, indeed. It was hateful to have to leave that; he ought to be robbed of the one thing that he imagined gave him an advantage in the presence of women. The women in his world would be embarrassed by the discussion of anything to do with the reproduction of the race. Why? Why were the women embarrassed and the men always suggestive and facetious? If only the men could realise what they admitted by their tone; what attitude towards life. …
It was a bitter east-wind; the worst kind of day there was. All along Oxford Street were women in furs, serene, with smooth warm faces untroubled by the bleak black wind, perhaps even enjoying the cold. Miriam struggled along, towards the cruel east, shivering, her face shrivelled and frozen and burning, her brain congealed. If she were free she could at least have a cup of coffee and get warm and go into the Museum and be warm all the afternoon. To meet a stranger and have to be active and sociable when she was at her worst. He would be wrapped in the advantage of a fur-lined coat, or at least astrachan, and be able to think and speak. He would wonder what was the matter; even his careless foreign friendliness would not survive her frightful appearance. Yet when a clock told her the appointed time was past, the torment of the wind grew sharper in the thought that she might miss him. There was the Holborn Library, as he had described. There was no one there, the pavement was empty; he had given her up and gone; had perhaps never come. She was relieved. She had done her best. Fate had saved her; her afternoon was her own. But she must show
