“Yes, hasn’t it been funny? I seem to know you all at once so much better.”
“Well—don’t you think I’m perfectly hateful?”
“No. I admire you more than ever. I think you’re simply splendid.”
“Then you simply don’t know me.”
“Yes I do. And you’ll be able to write to me.”
Eve, easily weeping, hugged her and whispered, “You mustn’t. I can’t see you break down—don’t—don’t—don’t. We can’t be blue your last night.... Think of nice things.... There will be nice things again ... there will, will, will, will.”
Miriam pursed her lips to a tight bunch and sat twisting her long thickish fingers. Eve stood up in her tears. Her smile and the curves of her mouth were unchanged by her weeping, and the crimson had spread and deepened a little in the long oval of her face. Miriam watched the changing crimson. Her eyes went to and fro between it and the neatly pinned masses of brown hair.
“I’m going to get some hot water,” said Eve, “and we’ll make ourselves glorious.”
Miriam watched her as she went down the long room—the great oval of dark hair, the narrow neck, the narrow back, tight, plump little hands hanging in profile, white, with a purple pad near the wrist.