It would be such an awful labour ..... in the long interval the strength for it would disappear. Thoughts must be kept away. Activities. The week-end would be a vacuum of tense determination. That was the payment for headlong speech. Speech, thought-out speech, does nothing but destroy. There had been a moment of hesitation in the train, swamped by the illumination coming from the essay..... The morning’s letters lay unopened on her table. Dreadful. Dealing with them would bring unconsciousness, acceptance of the situation would leap upon her unawares. She gathered them up conversationally, summoning presences and the usual atmosphere of the working day, but was disarmed by the trembling of her hands. The letters were the last link. Merely touching them had opened the door to a withering pain. When the appointments were kept, she would no longer be in the house. The patients crowded through her mind; individuals, groups, families, the whole fabric of social life richly unrolled day by day, for her contemplation; spirited away. Each letter brought the sting of careless indifferent farewell. At the hall door James was whistling for a hansom; it was a dream picture, part of the week that was past. A hansom drew up, the abruptly reined-in horse slipping and scrabbling. Perhaps there _was_ a patient hidden in Mr. Leyton’s quiet sounding surgery. Once more she could watch a patient’s departure; the bright oblong of street ..... he was away for the week-end. There was no patient. It was a dream picture. Dream figures were coming downstairs.... Mrs. Orly, Mr. Orly, not yet gone; coming hurriedly straight towards her. She rose without thought, calmly unoccupied, watching them come, one person, swiftly and gently. They stood about her, quite near; silently radiating their kindliness. “I suppose we must say good-bye,” said Mrs. Orly. In her sweet little sallow face not a shadow of reproach; but lively bright sorrow, _tears_ in her eyes. “I say, we’re awfully sorry about this,” said Mr. Orly gustily, shifting his poised bulk from one foot to the other. “So am I,” said Miriam seeking for the things they were inviting her to say. She could only smile at them. “It _is_ a pity,” whispered Mrs. Orly. _This_ was the Orlys; the reality of them; an English reality; utterly unbusinesslike; with no codes but themselves; showing themselves; without disguises of voice or manner, to a dismissed employee; the quality of England; old-fashioned. “I know.” They both spoke together and then Mrs. Orly was saying “No, Ro can’t bear strangers.” “If _you_ don’t want me to go I shall stay,” she murmured. But the sense of being already half reinstated was driven away by Mrs. Orly’s unaltered distress. “Ungrateful?” The gustily panting tones were the remainder of the real anger he had felt, listening to Mr. Hancock’s discourse. They had no grievance and they had misunderstood his. “No” she said coldly, “I don’t think so.”