“You do,” murmured Eve. “You are proud.”
“What of?”
“You know quite well.”
“What?”
“He’s the nicest boy we know.”
“But he’s not my boy. Of course not. You’re insane. Besides, I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
“Oh, well, we won’t talk. We’ll go and arrange your chignon.”
“I’m going to have simply twists and perhaps a hair ornament.”
14
Miriam reached the conservatory from the garden door and set about opening the lid of the grand piano. She could see at the far end of the almost empty drawing-room a little ruddy thick-set bearded man with a roll of music under his arm talking to her mother. He was standing very near to her, surrounding her with his eager presence. “Mother’s wonderful,” thought Miriam, with a moment’s adoration for Mrs. Henderson’s softly-smiling girlish tremulousness. Listening to the man’s hilarious expostulating narrative voice she fumbled hastily for her waltz amongst the scattered piles of music on the lid of the piano.