behind you; you must live upon the country you occupy. And you give such delight that, after all, you are welcome—you are infinitely welcome!"
"I don't know what you mean. I only care for the idea," Miriam said.
"That's exactly what I pretend; and we must all help you to it. You use us, you push us about, you break us up. We are your tables and chairs, the simple furniture of your life."
"Whom do you mean by 'we'?"
Sherringham gave a laugh. "Oh, don't be afraid—there will be plenty of others."
Miriam made no rejoinder to this, but after a moment she broke out again: "Poor Dashwood, immured with mamma—he's like a lame chair that one has put into the corner."
"Don't break him up before he has served. I really believe that something will come out of him," her companion went on. "However, you'll break me up first," he added, "and him probably never at all."
"And why shall I honour you so much more?"
"Because I'm a better article, and you'll feel that."
"You have the superiority of modesty—I see."
"I'm better than a young mountebank—I've vanity enough to say that."
She turned upon him with a flush in her cheek and a splendid dramatic face. "How you hate us! Yes, at bottom, below your little taste, you hate us!" she repeated.
He coloured too, met her eyes, looked into them a minute, seemed to accept the imputation, and then said quickly: "Give it up; come away with me."
