The next morning a housemaid tapped at Miriam’s door half an hour after she had called her to say that her breakfast was laid in the schoolroom. Going out on to the landing she discovered the room by a curious rank odour coming towards her through a half-opened door. Pushing open the door she found a large clear room, barely furnished, carpeted with linoleum and cold in the morning light pouring through an undraped window. In the grate smoked a half-ignited fire and one corner of the hearth-rug caught by a foot lay turned back. Across one end of the baize-covered table a cloth was laid, and on it stood a small crowded tray: a little teapot, no cosy, some rather thick slices of bread and butter, a small dish of marmalade, a small plate and cup and saucer piled together, and a larger plate on which lay an unfamiliar fish, dark brown, curiously dried and twisted and giving out a strong salt smoky odour. Miriam sat uncomfortably on the edge of a cane chair getting through her bread and butter and tea and one mouthful of the strong dry fish, feeling, with the door still standing wide, like a traveller snatching a hasty meal at a buffet. She tried to collect her thoughts on education. Little querulous excited sounds came to her from across the wide landing. Presently there came the swift flountering of a print dress across the landing and Wiggerson, long and willowy and capless with a cold red nose and large red hands, her thin small head looking very young with its revealed bunch of untidy hair, appeared in the schoolroom doorway with an unconscious smile hesitating on her pale lips and in her pale blue eyes. “It isn’t very comfortable for you,” she said in a hurried voice. “I say, my _word_”; she went to the chilly grate and bent down for the poker. Miriam glanced at the solicitous droop of her long figure. “Stokes hasn’t half laid it,” went on Wiggerson; “if I were you I should have breakfast in my room. They all do, except Mr. Corrie when he’s at home. The other young lady was daily; she didn’t stop. I should, if I were you,” she finished, getting lightly to her feet. She stood between the door and the fireplace, half turned away, and gazing into space with her pale strong eyes, every line in her long pure unconscious figure waiting for Miriam’s response. “Do you _like_ me, Wiggerson?” said Miriam within, “you’ll have toothache and neuralgia with that thin head. You’re devoted to your relations. You’ve got a tiresome sickly old mother. You’ll never know you’re a servant....” “I think perhaps I will,” she drawled, clearing her throat. “All right,” said Wiggerson, with a lit face. “I’ll tell them.” CHAPTER II 1