"Poor little man!"
"And when one begins to think about it seriously, Helen, will one like it very much? Who's going to play with me? There'll be Uncle Alfred and a housekeeper woman. And do you know what he said?" She struggled from the box, shut down the lid and sat on it. "He said I must think I'm going into the world to learn. Learn!"
"I expect you'll want to. You won't like yourself so much when you meet other people."
"And shan't I hate my clothes! And I have visions, sister Helen, of four elderly gentlemen sitting round a whist-table, and me reading a book in a corner. So you see—no, I don't want to take that: give it to Samson—so you see, I'm a little damped. Well, if I don't like it, I shall come back. After all, there's Daniel."
"He's tired of you."
She showed her bright, sharp teeth, and said, "He'll recover after a rest. Oh, dear! I find I'm not so young and trustful as I was, and I'm expecting to be disappointed."
"The best thing," Helen said slowly, sitting down with a lapful of clothes, "is for the worst to happen. Then you needn't be troubled any more." She took a breath. "It's almost a relief."
"Oh, I don't feel so bad as that," Miriam explained, and Helen fell back laughing loudly.
"You've spilt all my clothes," Miriam said, and began to pick them up. "And don't make such a noise. Remember Notya!"
Helen was on her side, her head rested on her outstretched arm, and her face was puckered, her mouth widened with the noise she made.