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The others, except her
father and mother and the young children, had gone out, so the two had
the parlour together. It was a long, low, warm room. There were three of
Paul's small sketches on the wall, and his photo was on the mantelpiece.
On the table and on the high old rosewood piano were bowls of coloured
leaves. He sat in the armchair, she crouched on the hearthrug near his
feet. The glow was warm on her handsome, pensive face as she kneeled
there like a devotee.
"What did you think of Mrs. Dawes?" she asked quietly.
"She doesn't look very amiable," he replied.
"No, but don't you think she's a fine woman?" she said, in a deep tone,
"Yes--in stature. But without a grain of taste. I like her for some
things. IS she disagreeable?"
"I don't think so. I think she's dissatisfied."
"What with?"
"Well--how would you like to be tied for life to a man like that?"
"Why did she marry him, then, if she was to have revulsions so soon?"
"Ay, why did she!" repeated Miriam bitterly.
"And I should have thought she had enough fight in her to match him," he
said.


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