7
“Have another cup dear. He said the picture was like me and like my name. He thinks it’s the right name for me—‘you’ll always be able to inspire affection’ he said.”
“Yes that’s true.”
“He wants me to change my first name. He thought Eleanor would be pretty.”
“I say; look here.”
“Of course I can’t make any decision until I know certain things.”
“D’you mean to say ... goodness!”
Miss Dear chuckled indulgently, making little brisk movements about the tea-tray.
“So I’m to be called Eleanor Dear. He’s a dear little man. I’m very fond of him. But there is an earlier friend.”
“Oh——”
“I thought you’d help me out.”
“I?”
“Well dear, I thought you wouldn’t mind calling and finding out for me how the land lies.”
Miriam’s eyes fixed the inexorable shapely outlines of the tall figure. That dignity would never go; but there was something, that would never come ... there would be nothing but fuss and mystification for the man. She would have a house and a dignified life. He, at home, would have death. But these were the women. But she had liked the book. There was something in it she had felt. But a man reading, seeing only bits and points of view would never find that far-away something. She would hold the man by being everlastingly mysteriously up to something or other behind a smile. He would grow sick to death of mysterious nothings; of things always centering in her, leaving everything else outside her dignity. Appalling. What was she doing all the time, bringing one’s eyes back and back each time after one had angrily given in, to question the ruffles of her hair and the way she stood and walked and prepared to speak.
“Oh...! of course I will—you wicked woman.”
“It’s very puzzling. You see he’s the earlier friend.”
“You think if he knew he had a rival. Of course. Quite right.”
“Well dear, I think he ought to know.”
“So I’m to be your mamma. What a lark.”
Miss Dear shed a fond look. “I want you to meet my little man. He’s longing to meet you?”
“Have you mentioned me to him.”
“Well dear who should I mention if not you?”