“I shan’t take any of my summer things there,” said Miriam. Mrs. Henderson’s face twitched. “Shall I?” “I’m afraid you haven’t very much in the way of thick clothing.” “I’ve only got my plaid dress for every day and my mixy grey for best and my dark blue summer skirt. My velveteen skirt and my nainsook blouse are too old.” “You can wear the dark blue muslin blouse with the blue skirt for a long time yet with something warm underneath.” “My grey’s very grubby.” “You look very well in it indeed.” “I don’t mean that. I mean it’s all gone sort of dull and grubby over the surface when you look down it.” “Oh, that’s your imagination.” “It isn’t my imagination and I can see how Harriett’s looks.” “You both look very nice.” “That’s not the point.” “Don’t make a mountain out of a molehill, my chick.” “I’m not making anything. The simple fact is that the grey dresses are piggy.” Mrs. Henderson flushed deeply, twining and untwining her silk-gloved fingers. “She thinks that’s ‘gross exaggeration.’ That’s what she wants to say,” pondered Miriam wearily. They turned into Langham Place. She glanced to see whether her mother realised where they were. “Look, we’re in the West End, mother! Oh, I’m not going to think about Banbury Park till it begins!” 10 They drew up near the Maison Nouvelle. “_Stanlake_ is,” said a refined emphatic voice from the pavement. Miriam did not look for the speaker. The quality of the voice brought her a moment’s realisation of the meaning of her afternoon’s adventure. She was going to be shut up away from the grown-up things, the sunlit world, and the people who were enjoying it. She would be shut up and surrounded in Wordsworth House, a proper schooly school, amongst all those strange roadways. It would be cold English pianos and dreadful English children--and trams going up and down that grey road outside. As they went on down Regent Street she fastened, for refuge from her thoughts, upon a window where softly falling dresses of dull olive stood about against a draped background of pale dead yellow. She held it in her mind as shop after shop streamed by. “These shops are extremely récherché.” “It’s old Regent Street, mother,” said Miriam argumentatively. “Glorious old Regent Street. Ruby wine.” “Ah, Regent Street.” “We always walk up one side and down the other. Up the dolls’ hospital side and down Liberty’s. Glory, glory, ruby wine.” “You _are_ enthusiastic.” “But it’s so glorious. Don’t you think so?” “Sit back a little, chickie. One can’t see the windows. You’re such a solid young woman.”