“It is scarcely that. The place is clean and pleasant and doubtless a great convenience to many people. But, dear me, dear me, I can only imagine the horror of my chief in beholding me sitting here, and at such an hour.”
Astonishment kept Miriam dumb and passed into resentment. Having delivered her judgment, Miss Holland now sat contemptuously drawing on her gloves. The episode over and escape at hand, she released a scorn that was almost venomous. It lingered about her politely smiling relief, an abominable look of triumph. Of personal triumph.
Miriam clung to her silence. She felt the advantage fall to her own side as she saw Miss Holland’s acceptance of her unspoken thoughts.
“It is different for yourself,” she said in answer to them. “You are free from the necessity of considering appearances.”
“I’m a guttersnipe, thank Heaven,” said Miriam.
Miss Holland laughed. A small sound incapable of reaching the next table. She was really amused.
“You are anything but that. And in certain respects you may consider yourself fortunate.”
Donizetti’s had been insulted. At sight of Miss Holland hurrying with bent head, as if weathering a gale of contamination, down the aisle between the rows of little tables, Miriam hated her. Hated her refusal to place herself outside the pale of feminine dignity. The narrow pale. Deep. But were they deep, these people who went about considering their dignity? “Dignity is absurdity,” she vowed, keeping step with Miss Holland’s light swift walk.
There is one thing worse than a dignified man and that is an undignified woman. Chesterton. It sounded so respectful; chivalrous. Made me try to remember to be dignified for a whole day. I tried to crush Hypo by quoting it.
“Just so,” he said. “Dignity is the privilege of the weak.”