"Yes," she said. "We do not have them often, because we cannot afford them. When we do we only have our best friends, and they find the room big enough and good enough." Miles made no further observation, though his silence was a work of art in unexpressed things, and Nora led him to their little _Fremdenzimmer_. She had prepared it with the greatest care. There was a jar of flowers on the dressing-table, and everything smelt of freshness and cleanliness, but she had not been able to stretch its dimensions, and it was with unanswerable justice that Miles inquired where he was expected to keep his things. "You can keep one of your boxes under the bed," Nora said in some confusion. "The others are being put in the corridor. I’m afraid you’ll have to go outside when you want anything. I am very sorry, dear." "That’s all right," Miles said, with sudden and surprising amiability. "I’ll manage somehow." Nora left him to make what toilette he chose, thankful to be alone for a moment. She went straight back to the drawing-room and faced each chair in turn with an unflinching eye. Her shame was over and her spirit was up in arms. In that moment she cared nothing for Miles’s opinion nor the opinion of the whole world. This was her home—her and Wolff’s home—and he who chose to despise it could shake the dust off his feet and go elsewhere. She could almost have embraced the ugliest chair, and she was so proud of her own loyal enthusiasm that she did not recognise it for what it really was—the last desperate refuge of her deeply humbled pride. She went about her work singing to herself—a thing she rarely did—and told herself that she was in excellent spirits. It cost her no effort to leave the dining-room door open whilst she laid the table. Let Miles see her! What did she care? And if he jeered and asked if she waited at her own dinner parties or covered her little home with the wealth of his contempt, had she not one triumphant answer? "Small and poor it may be, but it contains everything I care for on this earth!" She felt so sure of herself that when her brother entered half an hour later, she lifted a face from which a happy smile had brushed away every sign of storm and conflict. "How quick you have been!" she cried. "And, oh, Miles, what a magnificent man!" He laughed self-consciously and glanced down at his immaculate evening-clothes. "Not a bad fit, are they?" he said. "Poole’s, you know. I suppose you don’t change here, do you?" Nora flinched in spite of herself. "We do when we can," she said, still cheerful; "but very often Wolff comes back so late that he has no time to do more than wash and slip into his _Litewka_. Poor fellow! He has to work so frightfully hard."