She sat down in the arm-chair opposite Paul and Miriam, who were on the sofa. Miriam moved a little farther from him. The room was hot, with a scent of new bread. Brown, crisp loaves stood on the hearth.
“I shouldn’t have expected to see you here to-night, Miriam Leivers,” said Beatrice wickedly.
“Why not?” murmured Miriam huskily.
“Why, let’s look at your shoes.”
Miriam remained uncomfortably still.
”If tha doesna tha durs’na,” laughed Beatrice.
Miriam put her feet from under her dress. Her boots had that queer, irresolute, rather pathetic look about them, which showed how self-conscious and self-mistrustful she was. And they were covered with mud.
“Glory! You’re a positive muck-heap,” exclaimed Beatrice. “Who cleans your boots?”
“I clean them myself.”
“Then you wanted a job,” said Beatrice. “It would ha’ taken a lot of men to ha’ brought me down here to-night. But love laughs at sludge, doesn’t it, ’Postle my duck?”
“Inter alia,” he said.
“Oh, Lord! are you going to spout foreign languages? What does it mean, Miriam?”
There was a fine sarcasm in the last question, but Miriam did not see it.
“ ‘Among other things,’ I believe,” she said humbly.
Beatrice put her tongue between her teeth and laughed wickedly.
“ ‘Among other things,’ ’Postle?” she repeated. “Do you mean love laughs at mothers, and fathers, and sisters, and brothers, and men friends, and lady friends, and even at the b’loved himself?”
She affected a great innocence.
“In fact, it’s one big smile,” he replied.
“Up it’s sleeve, ’Postle Morel—you believe me,” she said; and she went off into another burst of wicked, silent laughter.
Miriam sat silent, withdrawn into herself. Everyone of Paul’s friends delighted in taking sides against her, and he left her in the lurch seemed almost to have a sort of revenge upon her then.
“Are you still at school?” asked Miriam of Beatrice.
“Yes.”
“You’ve not had your notice, then?”
“I expect it at Easter.”
