8
From the brown paper wrappings emerged a large plaque of Oriental pottery. Mr. Hancock manœuvred it upright, holding it opposite to her on the floor, supported against his knees. “There—what do you think of that?” he murmured bending over it. Miriam’s eyes went from the veinings on his flushed forehead to the violent soft rich red and blue and dull green covering the huge concave disc from side to side. It appeared to represent a close thicket of palm fronds, thin flat fingers, superimposed and splaying out in all directions over the deep blue background. In the centre appeared the head and shoulders of an enormous tiger, coming sinuously forward, one great paw planted on the greenery near the foremost middle edge of the plaque.
“M’m,” said Miriam staring.
Mr. Hancock rubbed the surface of the plaque with his forefinger. Miriam came near and ran her finger down across the rich smooth reliefs.
“Where shall I put it?” said Mr. Hancock.
“I should have it somewhere on that side of the room, where the light falls on it.”
Mr. Hancock raised the plaque in his arms and walked with it to the wall raising it just above his head and holding it in place between the two pictures of Devonshire. They faded to a small muddled dinginess, and the buff and green patterning of the wall-paper showed shabby and dim.
“It looks somehow too big or too small or something.... I should have it down level with the eyes, so that you can look straight into it.”
Mr. Hancock carefully lowered it.
“Let me come and hold it so that you can look” said Miriam advancing.