The snarling rattle of the coffee mill sounded out into the hall. Several voices were speaking together as she entered. Fräulein Pfaff was not there. Gertrude Goldring was grinding the coffee. The girls were sitting round the table in easy attitudes and had the effect of holding a council. Emma, her elbows on the table, her little face bunched with scorn, put out a motherly arm and set a chair for Miriam. Jimmie had flung some friendly remark as she came in. Miriam did not hear what she said, but smiled responsively. She wanted to get quietly to her place and look round. There was evidently something in the air. They all seemed preoccupied. Perhaps no one would notice how awful she looked. "You're not the only one, my dear," she said to herself in her mother's voice. "No," she replied in person, "but no one will be looking so perfectly frightful as me." "I say, do they know you're down?" said Gertrude hospitably, as the boiling water snored on to the coffee. Emma rushed to the lift and rattled the panel. "Anna!" she ordered, "Meece Hendshon! Suppe!" "Oh, thanks," said Miriam, in general. She could not meet anyone's eye. The coffee cups were being slid up to Gertrude's end of the table and rapidly filled by her. Gertrude, of course, she noticed had contrived to look dashing and smart. Her hair, with the exception of some wild ends that hung round her face was screwed loosely on the top of her head and transfixed with a dagger-like tortoise-shell hair ornament--like a Japanese--Indian--no, Maori--that was it, she looked like a New Zealander. Clara and Minna had fastened up theirs with combs and ribbons and looked decent--frauish though, thought Miriam. Judy wore a plait. Without her fuzzy cloud she looked exactly like a country servant, a farmhouse servant. She drank her coffee noisily and furtively--she looked extraordinary, thought Miriam, and took comfort. The Martins' brown bows appeared on their necks instead of cresting their heads--it improved them, Miriam thought. What regular features they had. Bertha looked like a youth--like a musician. Her hair was loosened a little at the sides, shading the corners of her forehead and adding to its height. It shone like marble, high and straight. Emma's hair hung round her like a shawl. 'Lisbeth, Gretchen ... what was that lovely German name ... hild ... Brunhilde.... Talk had begun again. Miriam hoped they had not noticed her. Her "Braten" shot up the lift. "Lauter Unsinn!" announced Clara. "We've all got to do our hair in clash ... clashishsher Knoten, Hendy, all of us," said Jimmie judicially, sitting forward with her plump hands clasped on the table. Her pinnacle of hair looked exactly as usual. "Oh, really." Miriam tried to make a picture of a classic knot in her mind. "If one have classic head one can have classic knot," scolded Clara. "Who have classic head?" "How many classic head in the school of Waldstrasse?"