At ten o'clock the youngest girl was sent to bed. Miriam scornfully watched herself miss her opportunity of getting away. She sat fascinated, resenting the interruption; enviously filching the gay outbreaking kindness that robbed the departure of humiliation and sent the girl away counting on to-morrow. He went out of his way to make _Polly Bailey_ happy ... and sat on by the dying fire unwearied, freshly humming to himself towards the dingy hearth scattered thinly with sparse dusty ash. Mrs. Bailey returned, raked together the remains of the fire and settled herself in her chair with a shiver. In a moment she would begin her questionings and the voice would sound again.--You cold mother darling? Come nearer the fire--Mrs. Bailey pulled her chair a few inches forward arching her neck and smiling her bright sweet smile--Oogh, its parky upstairs--Miriam implored herself to go. Parky, reiterated Mrs. Bailey uncertainly, glancing daintily from side to side and smiling away a yawn behind her small rough reddened hand--Parky? What is parky?--_Parky_, said Mrs. Bailey, _cold_; like a park--Ah, I see. That is good. When I go upstairs I go to Hyde Park.... I shall have in my bedroom a band and a mass meeting, and a policeman. Salvation Army Band. Miriam sat stiffly through the laughter of the Baileys. Her refusal to join brought the discomforting realisation of having laughed, several times during the past hour. She had laughed in spite of herself, flinging her laughter out across the hearthrug towards the dying fire, leading the laughter of the Baileys, holding them off and herself apart. Now suddenly by refusing to share their laughter when they led the way she had openly separated herself from them. Then they knew she stayed on under a charm. They had witnessed her theft from the wealth _they_ had provided, her gratitude to him for the store of memories she had gathered. It was the price. It stung and tried to humiliate her. She sat steadily on, flouting it. The grouping would not recur. Why did not Mrs. Bailey make him go on talking? A cold gloom spread sideways from the polished arch of the grate, encroaching on the corner where he sat drumming and humming. She drew her eyes with an air of absorption towards the dying fire. Its aspect was unendurably bleak. Her mind shrank from it, only to meet the sense of the cold darkness waiting upstairs. Mrs. Bailey's voice bridged the emptiness. Some inner link was restored. Somewhere in her voice was something that rang restoringly round the world. The disconnected narrative was flowing again. The chilly hearth glowed with a small dull brilliance.... The foreign voice went on and on, narrative dialogue commentary running flowing leaping, in the voice that rang whatever it said in bright sunshine. She listened openly, apologising in swift affectionate glances for her stiff middle-class resentment of his vulgar appearance. Was he vulgar? She tried in vain to recall her first impression.