“I’m not laughing, Miss Jenny.” Nancie’s firm lips curved away from her large faultless teeth. “I’m only smiling and telling you about our visit to Jones’s.”
Miss Jenny’s newspaper was lowered and her pince-nez removed.
“Eh? What d’ye say? Nonsense, Nancie, you know you were laughing. Why do you say you weren’t? What do you mean? Eh?”
“I’m sorry, Miss Jennie. Something tickled me.”
“Yes. Don’t be nonsensical. D’ye see? It’s nonsensical to say no when you mean yes. D’ye understand what I mean, Nancie? It’s bad manners.” Hitching on her pince-nez, Miss Jenny returned to her paper.
Miriam gave herself up to the luxury of reading Adèle to the accompaniment of bread and jam. She would not hurry over her bread and jam. As well not have it. She would sacrifice her chance of a third slice. She reflected that it would be a good thing if she could decide never to have more than two slices, and have them in peace. Then she could thoroughly enjoy her reading. But she was always so hungry. At home she could not have eaten thick bread and butter. But here every slice seemed better than the last. When she began at the hard thick edge there always seemed to be tender places on her gums, her three hollow teeth were uneasy and she had to get through worrying thoughts about them—they would get worse as the years went by, and the little places in the front would grow big and painful and disfiguring. After the first few mouthfuls of solid bread a sort of padding seemed to take place and she could go on forgetful.
“They’d got,” said Trixie Sanderson in a velvety tone, “they’d got some of their Christmas things out, Miss Jenny.” She cleared her throat shrilly on the last word and toned off the sound with a sigh. Inaudible laughter went round the table, stopping at Miriam, who glanced fascinated across at Trixie. Trixie sat in her best dress, a loosely made brown velveteen with a deep lace collar round her soft brown neck. Her neck and her delicate pale face were shaded by lively silky brown curls. She held her small head sideways from her book with a questioning air. One of her wicked swift brown eyes was covered serenely with its thin lid.
She uttered a second gentle sigh and once more cleared her throat, accompanying the sound with a rapid fluttering of the lowered lid.
Miriam condemned her, flouting the single eye which tried to search her, hating the sudden, sharp dimpling which came high up almost under Trixie’s cheek bones in answer to her own expression.
“Miss Jenny,” breathed Trixie in a high tone, twirling one end of the bow of black ribbon crowning her head.