The place was not crowded. Everyone there was distinctly visible—the lonely intent women in gaudy finery, the old men fêting bored, laughing girls who glanced about; the habitués, solitary figures in elderly bondage to the resources of the place. “Of course,” said Miriam at last, “there are all sorts of queer people here.” She sat back, unwilling to go, looking out into the room as if unaware of Miss Holland’s preparations to depart, following immediately on her last sip of the excellent coffee. But supposing Miss Holland should even for a moment sit back and contemplate her surroundings? She would see only material for pity or disgust. See only morally. Her interest in individuals would be an uninteresting interest. That young man, with his pose of careful conscious detachment would not for her be any kind of epitome, but just a young man—“probably some sort of student.” “It is now,” said Miss Holland, glancing at her wrist-watch, “well past midnight. This has been a unique experience. And, just for this once, I do not object to it. But it must certainly not be repeated.” Miriam gazed at her. She was blushing. She had seen all that there was to see. Miriam remembered her own first horror. But that had been alone and in youthful ignorance. “I’m sorry you don’t like my little haunt.” “It is scarcely that. The place is clean and pleasant and doubtless a great convenience to many people. But, dear me, dear me, I can only imagine the horror of my chief in beholding me sitting here, and at such an hour.” Astonishment kept Miriam dumb and passed into resentment. Having delivered her judgment, Miss Holland now sat contemptuously drawing on her gloves. The episode over and escape at hand, she released a scorn that was almost venomous. It lingered about her politely smiling relief, an abominable look of triumph. Of personal triumph. Miriam clung to her silence. She felt the advantage fall to her own side as she saw Miss Holland’s acceptance of her unspoken thoughts. “It is different for yourself,” she said in answer to them. “You are free from the necessity of considering appearances.” “I’m a guttersnipe, thank Heaven,” said Miriam. Miss Holland laughed. A small sound incapable of reaching the next table. She was really amused. “You are anything but that. And in certain respects you may consider yourself fortunate.” Donizetti’s had been insulted. At sight of Miss Holland hurrying with bent head, as if weathering a gale of contamination, down the aisle between the rows of little tables, Miriam hated her. Hated her refusal to place herself outside the pale of feminine dignity. The narrow pale. Deep. But were they deep, these people who went about considering their dignity? “Dignity is absurdity,” she vowed, keeping step with Miss Holland’s light swift walk.