"That's to Paris. Before you go to your new post they must give you an interval here."
"I shan't take it—I'm so tremendously keen for my duties. I shall insist on going sooner. Oh, I shall be concentrated now."
"I'll come and act there," said Miriam, with her handsome smile. "I've already forgotten what it was I wanted to discuss with you: it was some trumpery stuff. What I want to say now is only one thing: that it's not in the least true that because my life pitches me in every direction and mixes me up with all sorts of people—or rather with one sort mainly, poor dears!—I haven't a decent character, I haven't common honesty. Your sympathy, your generosity, your patience, your precious suggestions, our dear, sweet days last summer in Paris, I shall never forget. You're the best—you're different from all the others. Think of me as you please and make profane jokes about my matrimonial prospects—I shall think of you only in one way. I have a great respect for you. With all my heart I hope you'll be a great diplomatist. God bless you!"
Miriam got up as she spoke and in so doing she glanced at the clock—a movement which somehow only added to the noble gravity of her discourse: it was as if she were considering his time, not her own. Sherringham, at this, rising too, took out his watch and stood a moment with his eyes bent upon it, though without in the least perceiving what the needles marked.
"You'll have to go, to reach the theatre at your usual hour, won't you? Let me not keep you. That is, let me keep you
