“I see. You simply run away from them,” she said scornfully; “go out for a walk or something.” A small Brixton sitting-room full of Brixton girls--Gerald said that Brixton was something too chronic for words, just like Clapham, and there was that joke about the man who said he would not go to heaven even if he had the chance because of the strong Clapham contingent that would be there--after all ... “I go and sit in my room.” “Oh,” said Miriam brokenly, “in the winter? Without a fire?” Mr. Parrow laughed. “I don’t mind about that. I wrap myself up and get a book.” “What sort of book?” “I’ve got a few books of my own; and there’s generally something worth reading in ‘Tit-Bits.’” How did he manage to look so refined and cultured? Those girls were quite good enough for him, probably too good. But he would go on despising them and one of them would marry him and give him beef-steak puddings. And here he was walking by the sea in the sunlight, confessing his suspicions and fears and going back to Brixton. “You’ll have to marry one of those young ladies one day,” she said abruptly. “That’s out of the question, even if I was a marrying man.” “Nonsense,” said Miriam, as they turned down the little pathway leading towards the village. Poor man, how cruel to encourage him to take up with one of those giggling dressy girls. “D’you mean to say you’ve been never specially interested in anybody?” “Yes. I never have.” 2 Ovingdean had to be faced. They were going to look at Ovingdean and then walk back to the boarding-house to tea. Now that she knew all about his home-life she would not be able to meet his eyes across the table. Two tired elm trees stood one on either side of the road at the entrance to the village. Here they all gathered and then went forward in a strolling party. When they turned at last to walk home and fell again into couples as before, Miriam searched her empty mind for something to say about the dim, cool musty church, the strange silent deeps of it there amongst the great green downs, the waiting chairs, the cold empty pulpit and the little cold font, and the sunlit front of the old Grange where King Charles had taken refuge. Mr. Parrow would know she was speaking insincerely if she said anything about these things. There was a long, long walk ahead. For some time they walked in silence. “D’you know anything about architecture?” she said at last angrily ... cruel silly question. Of course he didn’t. But men she walked with ought to know about architecture and be able to tell her things. “No. That’s a subject I don’t know anything about.” “D’you like churches?” “I don’t know that I’ve ever thought about it.” “Then you probably don’t.” “Oh, well, I don’t know about that. I don’t see any objection to them.” “Then you’re probably an atheist.” “I don’t know, I’m sure.” “Do you go to church?” “I can’t say I do in the usual way, unless I’m on a holiday.”