Miriam glanced towards the marble steps. The little group had disappeared. She turned helplessly towards Gertrude’s curtains. She could not think of anything to say to her. She was filled with apprehension. “I wonder what we shall do to-morrow,” she presently murmured.
“I don’t,” gasped Gertrude, towelling.
Miriam waited for the prophecy.
“Old Lahmann’s back from Geneva,” came the harsh panting voice.
“Pastor Lahmann?” repeated Miriam.
“None other, Madame.”
“Have you seen him?” went on Miriam dimly, wishing that she might be released.
“Scots wha hae, no! But I saw Lily’s frills.”
The billows of gold hair in the gallery were being piled up by two little hands—white and plump like Eve’s, but with quick clever irritating movements, and a thin sweet self-conscious voice began singing “Du, meine Seele.” Miriam lost interest in the vision.... They were all the same. Men liked creatures like that. She could imagine that girl married.
“Lily and his wife were great friends,” Gertrude was saying. “She’s dead, you know.”