“Coming,” called Miriam. “And, you know, Tommy needn’t think he can carry on with Meg in an alcove.”
“What would she think? Let’s go and tell Meg she must dress.”
“Mimmy!”
Miriam went back and put her head round the breakfast-room door.
“Let me see you when you’re dressed.”
“Why?”
“I want to kiss the back of your neck, my dear; love kissing people’s necks.”
Miriam smiled herself vaguely out of the room, putting away the unpleasant suggestion.
“I wish I’d got a dress like Nan’s,” she said, joining Harriett in the dark lobby.
“I say, somebody’s been using the ‘Financial Times’ to cut up flowers on. It’s all wet.” Harriett lifted the limp newspaper from the marble-topped coil of pipes and shook it.