“Do explain what you mean.” “Well, it’s different.” “I see. You don’t know how.” “It’s quite different.” “Does Gerald like the moonlight?” “_I_ dunno. I never asked him.” “Fancy the Roehampton people living up here all the time.” “There’s their old washing going flip-flap over there.” Harriett was finding out that she was back in the house with Eve. “Let’s rush to the windmill. Let’s sing.” “Come on; only we can’t rush and sing too.” “Yes we can, come on.” Running up over hillocks and stumbling through sandy gorse-grown hollows they sang a hunting song, Miriam leading with the short galloping phrases, Harriett’s thinner voice dropping in, broken and uncertain, with a strange brave sadness in it that went to Miriam’s heart. 6 “Eve, you look exactly like Dudley’s gracious lady in these things. Don’t you feel like it?” Eve stopped near the landing window and stood in her light green canvas dress with its pale green silk sleeves shedding herself over Miriam from under her rose-trimmed white chip hat. Miriam was carrying her light coat and all the small litter of her journey. “Go on up,” she said, “I want to talk,” and Eve hurried on, Miriam stumblingly following her, holding herself in, eyes and ears wide for the sight and sound of the slender figure flitting upstairs through the twilight. The twilight wavered and seemed to ebb and flow, suggesting silent dawn and full midday, and the house rang with a soundless music. “It was Mrs. Wallace who suggested my _wearing_ all my best things for the journey,” panted Eve; “they don’t get crushed with packing and they needn’t get dirty if you’re careful.” “You look exactly like Dudley’s gracious lady. You know you do. You know it perfectly well.” “They do seem jolly now I’m back. They don’t seem anything down there. Just ordinary with everybody in much grander things.” “How do you mean, grander? What sort of things?” “Oh, all sorts of lovely white dresses.” “It is extraordinary about all those white dresses,” said Miriam emphatically, pushing her way after Eve into Sarah’s bedroom. “Can I come in? I’m coming in. Sarah says it’s because men like them and she gets simply sick of girls in white and cream dresses all over the place in the summer, and it’s a perfect relief to see anyone in a colour in the sun. They have red sunshades sometimes, but Sarah says that’s not enough; you want people in colours. I wonder if there’s anything in it?” “Of course there is,” said Sarah, releasing the last strap of Eve’s trunk. “They’d _all_ put on coloured things if it weren’t for that.” “Men tell them.” “Do they?” “The engaged men tell them--or brothers.” “I can’t think how you get to know these things, sober Sally.” “Oh, you can tell.” “Well, then, _why_ do men like silly white and cream dresses, pasty, whitewashy clothes altogether?” “It’s something they want; it looks different to them.”