“How?”
“Oh, quite easily, I assure you.”
“And, oh Lord, a pail! I forgot a pail.”
“There is no need to invoke the Deity. I have several pails.”
Miriam turned and saw happiness shine from her. Her presence was balm as she stood so lightly there—a momentary stillness poised for help, ready to welcome any confession, shoulder any burden that might be offered—and then turned on a dancing step towards the big room, thoroughly pleased, deep, quite deep, in delight at the prospect of settling down here in intimacy.
And here they were. And it was wonderful. Full of a deep refreshment. The experiment was turning to success. But not yet quite fully. Not until the curtain was up and the strips of privacy were secure.
She was not sure that Miss Holland desired a complete privacy. The curtain, for her, was an affair of modesty, a physical not a spiritual covering. Spiritually she had nothing to hide.
She had no back premises. No reservations. And here, at last, no doubt, was the secret of the effortless decorous speech of the “gentlewoman.” And the secret of its tiresomely unvarying form. The quality it expressed went right through. They not only spoke as they thought, but thought as they spoke, guided and fashioned their thought, even to themselves, in forms of decorous speech. Anything that could not so be moulded was banished. Anything “unspeakable”—their strongest term of contempt. Thus they were, even when alone, permanently at attention.
For herself, the coming of the curtain would be the moment of dropping the mask of attention, the moment of soaring freely within this new life. Things were going ahead too fast. Strong impressions succeeding and obliterating each other too swiftly to be absorbed.
“I’ll go round for my things. Must find a greengrocer,” she said, looking in on Miss Holland cutting a slice from a substantial bar of plain soap.