A large undulating voice with a shrewd consoling glance in it. She must have come to the kitchen door to meet Harriett in the hall.
“Yes, I’ke spect she will.” It was the same voice she had had in the nursery, resonant with practice in speaking to new people. Miriam felt tears coming.
“Hullo, you porking? Isn’t it porking?”
“Simply porked to death my dear. Porked to Death” bawled Miriam softly, refreshed and delighted. Harriett was still far off, but she felt as if she had touched her. Even the end of the awful nine months was not changing her. Her freshly shampooed hair had a leisurely glint. There was colour in her cheeks. She surreptitiously rubbed her own hot face. Her appearance would improve now with every hour. By the evening she would be her old self. After tea she would play The Artist’s Model and The Geisha.
“Let’s have tea. I was asleep. I didn’t hear you come.” She sank into one of the large chairs, her thin accordion pleated black silk tea-gown billowing out round her squared little body. Even her shoulders looked broader and squarer. From the little pleated white chiffon chemisette her radiant firm little head rose up, her hair glinting under the light of the window behind her. She looked so fine—such a “fine spectacle”—and seemed so strong. How did she feel? Mrs. Thimm brought the teapot. The moment she had gone Harriett handed the rich cakes. Mrs. Thimm beaming, shedding strong beams of happiness and approval....
“Come on” said Harriett. “Let’s tuck in. There’s some thin bread and butter somewhere but I can’t eat anything but these things.”
“Can’t you?”
“The last time I went up to town Mrs. Bollingdon and I had six between us at Slater’s and when we got back we had another tea.”
“Fancy you!”
“I know. I can’t ’elp it.”