Miriam got up out of her deep chair and stood with her elbow on the low mantel staring into the fire. She heard phrases from Mrs. Anstruther’s letter to Bennett as if they were being spoken by a tiresome grave voice. “She doats upon her children. What she really wants is someone to control her; read Shakespeare to her and get her into the air.” Mrs. Corrie did not want Shakespeare. That was quite clear. And it was quite clear that she wanted a plain dull woman she could count on; always there, in a black dress. She doated. Someone else, working for her, in her pay, would look after the children and do the hard work. “The kiddies were ’riffickly ’cited. Wanted to stay up. I hope you’re strict, very strict, eh?” “I believe I’m supposed to understand discipline,” said Miriam stiffly, gazing with weary eyes at the bars of the grate. “We were in an awful fix before we heard about you. Poor old Bunnikin breakin’ down. She adored them--they’re angels. But she hadn’t the tiniest bit of a hold over them. Used to cry when they were naughty. _You_ know. Poor old kiddies. Want them to be awfully clever. Work like a house afire. I know you’re clever. P’raps you won’t stay with my little heathens. Do try and stay. I can see you’ve got just what they want. Strong-minded, eh? I’m an imbecile. So was poor old Bunnikin. D’you like kiddies?” “Oh, I’m very fond of children,” said Miriam despairingly. She stared at the familiar bars. They were the bars of the old breakfast-room grate at home, and the schoolroom bars at Banbury Park. There they were again hard and black in the hard black grate in the midst of all this light and warmth and fragrance. Nothing had really changed. Black and hard. Someone’s grate. She was alone again. Mrs. Corrie would soon find out. “I think children are so _interesting_,” she said conversationally, struck by a feeling of originality in the remark. Perhaps children were interesting. Perhaps she would manage to find the children interesting. She glanced round at Mrs. Corrie. Her squarish white face was worn. Her eyes and neck looked as though all the life and youth had been washed away from them by some long sorrow. Her smile was startling ... absolute confidence and admiration ... like mother. But she would find out if one were not really interested. 5