“It’s really a—a—a dressing-room from your room.”
“Oh,” said Miriam vivaciously.
“There’s a door, a—a—a door. I daresay you’ve noticed.”
“Oh! That’s the door in our cupboard!” The dim door behind the hanging garments led to nothing but to Miss Haddie’s room. She began unbuttoning her gloves.
Miss Haddie was hesitating near a cupboard, making little sounds.
“I suppose we must all make ourselves tidy now,” said Miriam.
“I thought you didn’t look very happy in church this morning,” cluttered Miss Haddie rapidly.
Miriam felt heavy with anger. “Oh,” she said clumsily, “I had the most frightful headache.”
“Poor child. I thought ye didn’t look yerself.”
The window was shut. But the room was mysteriously fresh, far away from the school. A fly was hovering about the muslin window blind with little reedy loops of song. The oboe ... in the quintet, thought Miriam suddenly. “I don’t know,” she said, listening. The flies sang like this at home. She had heard them without knowing it. She moved in her place by the window. The fly swept up to the ceiling, wavering on a deep note like a tiny gong.... Hot sunny refined lawns, roses in bowls on summerhouse tea-tables, refined voices far away from the Caledonian Road.