Helen met Miriam in the hall.
"There's been a telegram and Notya's going to Italy."
"Ah!" Miriam said, but her bright looks faded when Helen added, "With Uncle Alfred."
Miriam dropped her head and thrust her doubled fists under her chin, in the angry movement of her childhood. "Oh, isn't that just my luck!" she muttered fiercely. "I—I hadn't done with Uncle Alfred."
"Perhaps father hasn't done with life," Helen remarked.
"Oh, don't be pious! Don't be pious! You're always adorning tales. You're a prig!"
"Well, I haven't time to think about that now," Helen said with the excellent humour which made amends for her many virtues. "I'm helping Notya to pack and I want you to ask George Halkett if he will drive her down. The train goes at a quarter to three."
"I'm sorry," Miriam said, looking like the heroine in a play, "but I can't go there. I—don't approve of George."
"Oh!" Helen cried, screwing up her face. "Has John been telling you about Lily Brent?"
"No. What? Tell me!" Miriam answered with complete forgetfulness of her pose.