“And do you expect me to?” she answered coldly.
“Yes!—yes!—if you’d anything about you, you’d be glad! Do you want to see her.”
“I said I did.”
“Then I’ll bring her—shall I bring her here?”
“You please yourself.”
“Then I will bring her here—one Sunday—to tea. If you think a horrid thing about her, I shan’t forgive you.”
His mother laughed.
“As if it would make any difference!” she said. He knew he had won.
“Oh, but it feels so fine, mother, when she’s there! She’s such a queen in her way.”
Occasionally he still walked a little way from chapel with Miriam and Edgar. He did not go up to the farm. She, however, was very much the same with him, and he did not feel embarrassed in her presence. One evening she was alone when he accompanied her. They began by talking books: it was their unfailing topic. Mrs. Morel had said that his and Miriam’s affair was like a fire fed on books—if there were no more volumes it would die out. Miriam, for her part, boasted that she could read him like a book, could place her finger any minute on the chapter and the line. He, easily taken in, believed that Miriam knew more about him than anyone else. So it pleased him to talk to her about himself, like the simplest egoist. Very soon the conversation drifted to his own doings. It flattered him immensely that he was of such supreme interest.
“And what have you been doing lately?”
“I—oh, not much! I made a sketch of Bestwood from the garden, that is nearly right at last. It’s the hundredth try.”
So they went on. Then she said:
“You’ve not been out, then, lately?”
“Yes; I went up Clifton Grove on Monday afternoon with Clara.”
“It was not very nice weather,” said Miriam, “was it?”
“But I wanted to go out, and it was all right. The Trent is full.”
“And did you go to Barton?” she asked.
“No; we had tea in Clifton.”
“Did you! That would be nice.”
“It was! The jolliest old woman! She gave us several pom-pom dahlias, as pretty as you like.”
