“My dear golden girl, all grace and charm if only she chose, when do I see you again?”
The milk boiled over and Miss Holland laughed from her bed. Again it had made a frightful mess on the oil-stove. Nearly every day Miss Holland had somehow to make that mess disappear. Yet she always laughed. Was now gaily getting up to the accompaniment of her usual jests on the catastrophe.
It seemed enough for her that she lived in a glow of another life. For that she seemed willing to pay any price in unseen labour.
“Did you speak to your friend about writing to the musician?”
“No.”
“Indeed?” What a strange, sharp note....
“Not last night. I shall see him to-day probably, or to-morrow.”
Miriam could feel wrath coming through the curtain.
Miss Holland was speechless, her large frame, moving now impatiently about, a boiling wrath. Evidently she had undertaken; would now have to explain to these cherished friends. But what a turmoil! How easy to find words for them and carry them along a little. Was the whole world to be stopped for their letter?
She was glad she had spoken with serene indifference. Evidently her evening, the shape of her evening entertaining friends, was nothing. Her usefulness, to these wonderful acquaintances, all she was worth. It was careless, of course, to have forgotten. But she was glad now that she had forgotten. Glad to see for how little Miss Holland could adopt a tone of frigid annoyance. Damn, she thought, I’ve undertaken it. I’ll do it in my own time.