“I hope,” said Miss Holland, through a rapid scrunching of paper. “I trust, it was only those Church Army men.”
Miriam watched her go away, with the dustpan at arm’s length, still gravely expostulating.
“It’s dreadful,” she said to her returning form, “but also fearfully funny, to find the ultimate horror sitting contentedly, poor little thing, on the end of your bed.”
She tinkled and tinkled at that, woefully crying out through her laughter, repudiating and agreeing and contradicting.
“But I admire your spirit,” she wailed finally.
“Do look at this huge candle across the way.”
Miss Holland moved to her side and peered anxiously, frowning in anticipation.
“Very odd,” she said sceptically. “A ship’s candle, something of the kind.”
“Where did they get it? Besides, too tall, it would burn a cabin roof. Perhaps an altar candle.”
“Very eccentric.” She turned away, busily, skittishly. Pleased about something, but not interested in the candle.