She used sentimental German words about Harriett—a description of her that might have applied to Emma—little emphatic tender epithets came to her from the conversations of the girls. Fräulein praised her German warmly and asked question after question about the house and garden at Barnes and presently of her mother.
“I can’t talk about her,” said Miriam shortly.
“That is English,” murmured Fräulein.
“She’s such a little thing,” said Miriam, “smaller than any of us.” Presently Fräulein laid her gloved hand on Miriam’s gloved one. “You and I have, I think, much in common.”
Miriam froze—and looked at the gas-lamps slowly swinging by along the boulevard. “Much will have happened in England whilst you have been here with us,” said Fräulein eagerly.
They reached a street—shuttered darkness where the shops were, and here and there the yellow flare of a café. She strained her eyes to see the faces and forms of men and women—breathing more quickly as she watched the characteristic German gait.
There was the station.
Her trunk was weighed and registered. There was something to pay. She handed her purse to Fräulein and stood gazing at the uniformed man—ruddy and clear-eyed—clear hard blue eyes and hard clean clear yellow moustaches—decisive untroubled movements. Passengers were walking briskly about and laughing and shouting remarks to each other. The train stood waiting for her. The ringing of an enormous bell brought her hands to her ears. Fräulein gently propelled her up the three steps into a compartment marked Damen-Coupé. It smelt of biscuits and wine.
A man with a booming voice came to examine her ticket. He stood bending under the central light, uttering sturdy German words. Miriam drank them in without understanding. He left the carriage very empty. The great bell was ringing again. Fräulein standing on the top step pressed both her hands and murmured words of farewell.
“Leb’ wohl, mein Kind, Gott segne dich.”