“What is it?” said Miriam, shaking and flushing. “Don’t tell me, don’t tell me,” cried her mind, “don’t mention it, you don’t know yourself what it is. Nobody knows what anything is.” “I couldn’t tell you!” cried Mrs. Corrie. “Why _not_?” laughed Miriam. “It’s too awful,” giggled Mrs. Corrie. “Oh, you must tell me now you’ve begun.” “It’s the most awful thing there is. It’s like the Bible,” said Mrs. Corrie, and fled into the house. 4 Little cities burning and flaring in a great plain until everything was consumed. Everything beginning again--clean. Would London be visited by destruction? Humanity was as bad now as in Bible days. It made one feel cold and sick. In the midst of the beauty and happiness of England--awful things, the worst things there were. What awful faces those people must have. It would be dreadful to see them. 5 At the week-end the house seemed full of little groups of conspirators, talking in corners, full of secret glee ... someone describing a room, drawn curtains and candlelight at midday ... wonderful ... and laughing. Why did they laugh? A candle-lit room in the midst of bright day ... wonderful, like a shrine. The low-toned talk went on, in Mr. Corrie’s little study behind the half-closed door, in corners of the hall. Names were mentioned--the name of the man who wrote the plays, Mrs. Kronen’s “genius.” Miriam could only recall when she was alone that it was a woodland springtime name. It comforted her to think that this name was concerned in the horrible mystery. Her sympathies veered vaguely out towards the patch of disgrace in London and her interest died down. 6