“They’ve made you an enchanting table,” said Miss Holland, reaching the fireplace to stand sideways, firm hand on the mantelpiece and well-shod foot extended to the blaze.
Miriam had given no thought to the table. She gazed admiringly. What nobility of form and outline....
The large shady hat hid the limp hair and gave the eyes more than their usual depth. They were alight altogether, hesitating. She was communing with herself, eager to communicate. What? Something about Flaxman’s. No, or she would be frowning. And this high social moment was not for such things.
Miriam plunged into the story of her visit to Dr. Densley, compressing it to a few phrases, and throwing up her hands with the despairing gesture of the correct hostess off duty, told how he had invited himself to her party as an awkward fifth.
“But he gave you good news, or you would not look so bonny and happy.”
“Said Densleyish things. A number of old saws. Overwork, late hours, heading for a crash. Said that for a New Woman I am disquietingly sane, and that my criminal carelessness about things that most women are in a reasonable hurry over, may possibly mean that I’m in for a long life.”
“A most ingenious theory!”
“I don’t know. He’s been reading Shaw. Can’t believe that women really think about anything but capturing a man; for life. He wound up by imploring me not to miss marriage and what of all things do you think is his idea, or at least the idea that most appeals to him in marriage? The famous ‘conflict for supremacy!’”
“Indeed an unfortunate definition of matrimony.”
“Yes, but wait. That’s not all. Talk about women getting hypnotised by ideas! His mind, his so scientific mind—is putty. With immense solemnity he informed me, ‘No woman, dear girl, is truly happy until she is the loser in that supreme conflict.’”