Miriam’s trembling fingers gave a frightened fumbling tap at the study door. “Come in,” said Mr. Corrie officially, and coughed a loose, wheezy cough. He was sitting by the fire in one of the huge armchairs and didn’t look up as she entered. She stood with the door half closed behind her, fighting against her fear and the cold heavy impression of his dull grey dressing-gown and the grey rug over his knees. “It’s so lovely in the garden,” she said, fervently fixing her eyes on the small white face, a little puffy under its grizzled hair. He looked stiffly in her direction. “The sun is so warm,” she went on hurriedly. “Mrs. Corrie thought----” she stopped. Of course the man was too ill to be worried. For, an eternity she stood, waiting. Mr. Corrie coughed his little cough and turned again to the fire. If only she could sit down in the other chair, saying nothing and just be there. He looked so unspeakably desolate. He hated being there, not able to play or work. “I hate being ill,” she said at last, “it always seems such waste of time.” She knew she had borrowed that from someone and that it would only increase the man’s impatience. “I always have to act and play parts,” she thought angrily--and called impatiently to her everyday vision of him to dispel the obstructive figure in the armchair. “Umph,” said Mr. Corrie judicially. “You could have a chair,” she ventured, “and just sit quietly.” “No thanks, I’m not coming out.” He turned a kind face in her direction without meeting her eyes. “You have such a nice room,” said Miriam vaguely, getting to the door. “Do you like it?” It was his everyday voice, and Miriam stopped at the door without turning. “It’s so absolutely your own,” she said. Mr. Corrie laughed. “That’s a strange definition of charm.” “I didn’t say charming. I said your own.” Mr. Corrie laughed out. “Because it’s mine it’s nice, but it is, for the same reason, not charming.” “You’re tying me up into something I haven’t said. There’s a fallacy in what you have just said, somewhere.” “You’ll never be tied up in anything, mademoiselle--you’ll tie other people up. But there was no fallacy.” “No verbal fallacy,” said Miriam eagerly, “a fallacy of intention, deliberate misreading.” “No wonder you think the sun would do me good.” “How do you mean?” “I’m such a miscreant.” “Oh no, you’re not,” said Miriam comfortingly, turning round. “I don’t want you to come out”--she advanced boldly and stirred the fire. “I always like to be alone when I’m ill.” “That’s better,” said Mr. Corrie. “Good-bye,” breathed Miriam, getting rapidly to the door ... poor wretched man ... wanting quiet kindness. “Thank you; good-bye,” said Mr. Corrie gently. 9