“Oh, of course, I should only have them if the fellow wanted me to.”
“You haven’t got a fella yet, madam.”
“Of course not, cuckoo. But I shall.”
“Plenty of time to think about that.”
“Hoo. Fancy never having a fellow. I should go off my nut.”
When they had all disappeared Miriam opened the windows. There was still someone moving about in the hall, and as she stood in the instreaming current of damp air looking wearily at the concrete—a girl came into the room. “Can I come in a minute?” she said, advancing to the window. “I want to speak to you,” she pursued when she reached the bay. She stood at Miriam’s side and looked out of the window. Half-turning, Miriam had recognized Grace Broom, one of the elder first-class girls who attended only for a few subjects. She was a dark short-necked girl with thick shoulders; a receding mouth and boldly drawn nose and chin gave her a look of shrewd elderliness. The heavy mass of hair above the broad sweep of her forehead, her heavy frame and flat-footed walk added to this appearance. She wore a high-waisted black serge pinafore dress with black crape vest and sleeves.
“Do you mind me speaking to you?” she said in a hot voice. Her black-fringed brown eyes were fixed on the garden railings where people passed by and Miriam never looked.
“No,” said Miriam shyly.
“You know why we’re in mourning?”
Miriam stood silent with beating heart, trying to cope with the increasing invasion.