“Play something cheerful, chickie,” said her mother, in a dreadful deep trembling voice. Suddenly Miriam knew, in horror, that the voice wanted to scream, to bellow. Bellow ... that huge, tall woman striding about on the common at Worthing ... bellowing ... mad--madness. She summoned, desperately, something in herself, and played a thing she disliked, wondering why she chose it. Her hands played carefully, holding to the rhythm, carefully avoiding pressure and emphasis. Nothing could happen as long as she could keep on playing like that. It made the music seem like a third person in the room. It was a new way of playing. She would try it again when she was alone. It made the piece wonderful ... traceries of tone shaping themselves one after another, intertwining, and stopping against the air ... tendrils on a sunlit wall.... She had a clear conviction of manhood ... that strange hard feeling that was always twining between her and the things people wanted her to do and to be. Manhood with something behind it that understood. This time it was welcome. It served. She asserted it, sadly feeling it mould the lines of her face. 28 The end of the piece was swift and tuneful and stormy, the only part she had cared for hitherto. For a moment she was tempted to dash into it ... her hands were so able and strong, so near to mastery of the piano after that curious careful playing. But it would be cruel. She passed on to the final chords--broad and even and simple. They suggested quiet music going on, playing itself in the room. Getting up beaming and shy and embarrassed she did not dare to look at the waiting figure, and looked busily into the dark interiors of the bowls and vases along the mantelpiece.... There was something in the waiting figure that did not want to scream. Something exactly like herself.... At the bottom of one of the deep bowls was a curling-pin. She giggled, catching her breath. Mrs. Henderson glanced up at her and looked away, looking about the room. That’s naughty, thought Miriam. She’s not trying; she’s being naughty and tiresome. Perhaps she’s angry with me, and thinks I mean she must just go on enduring. “I can’t correct a misprint with a curling-pin.” Mother believed in the misprint.... Talk on about misprints ... why was it necessary to be insincere if one wanted to make anything happen? But anything was better than saying, What is the matter? That would be just as insincere, and impudent too. “These cheap things are always so badly printed.” “Oh!” ... Mother’s polite tone, trying to be interested. That was all she’d had for years. All she’d ever had, from him. Miriam sat down conversationally, in a long chair. She felt a numb sleepiness coming over her, and stretched all her muscles lazily, to their full limit ... mother, just mother in the room, perfect ease and security ... and relaxed with a long yawn, feeling serenely awake. The little figure ceased to be horrible.