“My life has been so useless,” said Mrs. Henderson suddenly. Here it was ... a jolt ... an awful physical shock, jarring her body.... She braced herself and spoke quickly and blindly ... a network of feeling vibrated all over to and fro, painfully. “It only seems so to you,” she said, in a voice muffled by the beating of her heart. Anything might happen--she had no power.... Mother--almost killed by things she could not control, having done her duty all her life ... doing thing after thing had not satisfied her ... being happy and brave had not satisfied her. There was something she had always wanted, for herself ... even mother.... Mrs. Henderson shuddered and sighed. Her pose relaxed a little. “I might have done something for the poor.” “Oh, yes? What things?” She had lived in a nightmare of ways and means, helpless.... “I might have made clothes, sometimes....” “That worries you, so that you can hardly bear it.” “Yes.” “It needn’t. I don’t mean the poor need not be helped. But you needn’t have that feeling.” “You understand it?” “I feel it this moment, as you feel it.” “Well?” “You needn’t.” Miriam held back her thoughts. Nothing mattered but to sit there holding back thought and feeling and argument, if only she could without getting angry.... There was something here, something decisive. This was what she had been born for, if only she could hold on. She felt very old. No more happiness ... the little house they sat in was a mockery, a fiendish contrivance to hide agony. There was nothing in these little houses in themselves, just indifference hiding miseries. She sat forward conversationally. A rain of tears was coming down her companion’s cheeks. To hold on ... hold on ... not to think or feel glad or sorry ... it would be impudent to feel anything ... to hold on if the tears went on for an hour ... treating them as if they were part of a conversation. “You understand me?” “Of course.” “You are the only one.” The relieved voice ... steady, as she had known it correcting her in her babyhood. “I should be better if I could be more with you ...” oh Lord ... impossible. “You must be with me as much as you like.” That was the thing. That was what must be done somehow. “Mother! would you mind if I smoked a cigarette?” It was suddenly possible, the unheard-of unconfessed ... suddenly easy and possible.