She didn’t want to know. She was saying something else.... How to mention it? Why say anything about it? But no one had ever asked. No one had known. This woman was the first. She of all people was causing the first time of speaking of it.
“I bought it when I was fifteen,” said Miriam vaguely, “and a Byron—with some money I had; seven and six.”
“Oh yes.”
“I didn’t care for the Byron; but it was a jolly edition; padded leather with rounded corners and gilt edged leaves.”
“Oh.”
“I’ve been reading this thing ever since I came back from my holidays.”
“It doesn’t look very big.”
Miriam’s voice trembled. “I don’t mean that. When I’ve finished it I begin again.”
“I wish you would read it to me.”
Miriam recoiled. Anything would have done; Donovan or anything.... But something had sprung into the room. She gazed at the calm profile, the long slender figure, the clear grey and pink, the pink frill of the jacket falling back from the soft fair hair turned cleanly up, the clean fluffy curve of the skull, the serene line of the brow bent in abstracted contemplation of the steaming pan. “I believe you’d like it” she said brightly.