“Oh, that’s grand,” she said hastily, and fluted quickly on, wondering where the inspiration had come from: “Luther said it’s much more difficult to live in the world than in a cell.”
“I am glad I have met you, glad I have met you,” he said, in a clear light tone.
She felt she knew the quality of the family voice, the way he had spoken as a lad, before his troubles came, his own voice easy and sincere. The flowers shone firm and steady on their stalks.
She laughed and rushed on into cheerful words, but his harsh voice drowned hers. “You have put my life in a nutshell.”
“How uncomfortable for you,” she giggled excitedly.
He laughed with a dip of the head obsequiously. There was a catch of mirth in his tone.
Miriam laughed and laughed, laughing out fully in relief. He turned towards her a young lit face, protesting and insisting. She wanted to wash it, with soap, to clear away a faint greasiness and do something with the lank, despairing hair.
“You have come at the right instant, and shown me wisdom. You are wonderful.”
She recoiled. She did not really want to help him. She wanted to attract his attention to her. She had done it and he did not know it. Horrible. They were both caught in something. She had wanted to be caught, together with this agonising priestliness. But it was a trick. Perhaps they hated each other now.
“It is jolly to talk about things,” she said, as the blood surged into her face.