Miriam felt very proud of tall Miss Perne when she met her in the hall at the beginning of her second term. Miss Perne had kissed her and held one of her hands in two small welcoming ones, talking in a gleeful voice. “Well, my dear,” she said at the end of a little pause, “you’ll have a clear evening. The gels do not return until to-morrow, so you’ll be able to unpack and settle yerself in comfortably. Come and sit with us when ye’ve done. We’ll have supper in the sitting-room. M’yes.” Smiling and laughing she turned eagerly away. “Of course, Miss Perne,” said Miriam in a loud wavering voice, arresting her, “I enjoyed my holidays; but I want to tell you how glad I am to be back here.” “Yes, yes,” said Miss Perne hilariously, “we’re all glad.” There was a little break in her voice, and Miriam saw that she would have once more taken her in her arms. “I like being here,” she said hoarsely, looking down, and supported herself by putting two trembling fingers on the hall table. She was holding back from the gnawing of the despair that had made her sick with pain when she heard once more the jingle-jingle, plock-plock of the North London trams. This strong feeling of pride in Miss Perne was beating it down. “I’m very glad, my dear,” responded Miss Perne in a quivering gleeful falsetto. ‘If you can’t have what you like you must like what you have,’ said Miriam over and over to herself as she went with heavy feet up the four flights of stairs. 2 A candle was already burning in the empty bedroom. “I’m back. I’m back. It’s all over,” she gasped as she shut the door. “And a jolly good thing too. This is my place. I can keep myself here and cost nothing and not interfere with anybody. It’s just as if I’d never been away. It’ll always be like that now. Short holidays, gone in a minute, and then the long term. Getting out of touch with everything, things happening, knowing nothing about them, going home like a visitor, and people talking to you about things that are only theirs, now and not wanting to hear about yours ... not about the little real everyday things that give you an idea of anything but only the startling things that are not important. You have to think of them though to make people interested--awful, awful, awful, really only putting people further away afterwards when you’ve told the thing and their interest dies down and you can’t think of anything else to say. ‘Miss Perne’s hair is _perfectly_ black--as black as coal, and she’s the eldest, just _fancy_.’ Then everybody looks up. ‘My room’s downstairs, the room where I teach, is in the basement. Directly breakfast is over----’