13
Waking in the darkness, she heard the fluttering of leafage in the garden and lay still and cool listening and smiling. That went on ... flutter, flutter, in the breeze. It was enough ... and things happened, as well, in the far far off things called “days.”
14
A fearful clamour—bright sunlight; something sticking sideways through the partly opened door—a tin trumpet. It disappeared with a flash as she leapt out of bed. The idea of Harriett being up first!
Harriett stood on the landing in petticoat and embroidered camisole, her hair neatly pinned, her face glowing and fresh.
“Gerrup,” she said at once.
“You up. You oughtn’t to be. I’m going to get your breakfast. You mustn’t dress yourself....”
“Rot! You hurry up, old silly, breakfast’s nearly ready.”
She ran upstairs tootling her trumpet. “Hurry up,” she said, from the top of the stairs, with a friendly grin.
Miriam shouted convivially and retired into her crowded sunlit bathroom, turning on both bath taps so that she might sing aloud. Harriett had made the day strong ... silver bright and clean and clear. Harriett was like a clear blade. She splashed into the cold water gasping and singing. Two o’clock—ages yet before the weddings. There was a smell of bacon frying. They would all have breakfast together. She could smile at Harriett. They had grown up together and could admit it, because Harriett was going away. But not for ages. She flew through her toilet; the little garden was blazing. It was a fine hot day.