“You wait. Oh—you wait,” sang Mrs. Corrie in a whisper. “I shall find out, I shall find out, if you’re not careful, I shall find out his name.”
Miriam blushed violently. “Ah-ha,” beamed Mrs. Corrie in a soft high monotone. “I shall find out. We’ll have such fun.”
“Do you believe in it?” said Miriam, half irritably.
“You wait—you wait—you wait, young lady. Mélie’ll be here on Friday day.”
The rich caramel, the nuts and dessert, Mrs. Corrie’s approval of her refusal of port wine with her nuts, the curious, half-drowsy chill which fell upon the table, darkening and sharpening everything in the room as the broken brown nutshells increased upon their trellis-edged plates were under the spell of the strange woman. Mrs. Corrie kept on talking about her; Mélie—born in Devonshire, seeing fairies, having second sight, being seen one day staring into space by a sportsman, a fisherman, a sort of poet, who married her and brought her to London. Did Mrs. Corrie really believe that she knew everything? “I believe she’s a changeling,” laughed Mrs. Corrie at last—“oh, it’s cold. Chum-long, let’s go.”
4
“We can’t go into my little room,” said Mrs. Corrie, turning to Miriam with a little excited catch in her voice, as the bead curtain rattled gently into place behind them. “It’s bein’ re-done.” Just ahead of them, beyond a mystery of palms to right and left, a door opened upon warm brilliance. Miriam heard the busy tranquil flickering of a fire. “I see,” she said eagerly. “Why does she explain?” she wondered, as they passed into the large clear room. How light it was, fairyland, light and fragrant and very warm. The light was high; creamy bulbs, high up, and creamy colour everywhere, cream and gold stripes, stripy chairs of every shape, some of them with twisted gilt legs, curious oval pictures in soft half-tones, women in hats, strange groups, all tilted forward like mirrors.
“Ooogh—barracky, ain’t it? I hate empty droin’-rooms,” said Mrs. Corrie, sweeping swiftly about, pushing up great striped easy chairs towards the fire. Miriam stood in a dream, watching the little pale hands in the clear light, dead white fingers, rings, twinkling green and sea blue, and the thin cruel flash of tiny diamonds ... harpy hands ... dreadful and clever ... one of the hands came upon her own and compelled her to drop into a large cushioned chair.
“Like him black?” came the gay voice. Coffee cups tinkled on a little low table near Mrs. Corrie’s chair. “I’m glad you’re tall. Kummel?”
“She doesn’t know German pronunciation,” thought Miriam complacently.