Miriam took the parcel and subsided on to the hearthrug, looking with a new curiosity at Harriett’s little, round, firelit face, smiling tightly between the rim of her hard felt hat and the bright silk bow beneath her chin.
A footstep sounded on the landing and there was a gentle tap on the open door.
“Oh, come in, Eve—bring some matches. Are the collars piquet, Harry?”
“No, they hadn’t got piquet, but they’re the plain shape you like. You may thank us they didn’t send you things with little rujabiba frills.”
Eve came slenderly down the room and Miriam saw with relief that her outdoor things were off. As the gas flared up she drew comfort from her scarlet serge dress, and the soft crimson cheek and white brow of the profile raised towards the flaring jet.
“What are things like downstairs?” she said, staring into the fire.
“I don’t know,” said Eve. She sighed thoughtfully and sank into a carpet chair under the gas bracket. Miriam glanced at her troubled eyes.
“Pater’s only just come in. I think things are pretty rotten,” declared Harriett from the hearthrug.
“Isn’t it ghastly—for all of us?” Miriam felt treacherously outspoken. It was a relief to be going away. She knew that this sense of relief made her able to speak. “It’s never knowing that’s so awful. Perhaps he’ll get some more money presently and things’ll go on again. Fancy mother having it always, ever since we were babies.”
“Don’t, Mim.”