He was grave again and did not answer.
“People don’t talk about things nearly enough,” she pursued.
10
“I saw Miriam through the window, deep in conversation with a most interesting young man.”
“Have those people written about the bouquets?” said Miriam irritably.... Then mother had moved about the new house and was looking through those drawing-room windows this afternoon. She had looked about the house with someone else, saying all the wrong things, admiring things in the wrong way, impressed in the wrong way, having no thoughts, and no one with her to tell her what to think....
She flashed a passionate glance towards the clear weak flexible voice, half seeing the flushed face ... you’re not upset about the weddings—“Miriam’s scandalous goings-on the whole day long,” said somebody ... because you’ve got me. You don’t know me. You wouldn’t like me if you did. You don’t know him. He doesn’t know you. But I know you, that’s the difference....
“I’ve just thought something out,” she said aloud, her voice drowned by two or three voices and the sound of things being served and handed about the supper-table. They were trying to draw her—still talking about the young men and her “goings-on.” They did not know how far away she was and how secure she felt. She laughed towards her mother and smiled at her until she made her blush. Ah, she thought proudly, it’s I who am your husband. Why have I not been with you all your life?... all the times you were alone; I knew them all. No one else knows them.
“I say,” she insisted, “what about the bouquets?”
Mrs. Henderson raised her eyebrows helplessly and smiled, disclaiming.
“Hasn’t anybody done anything?” roared Miriam.