Perhaps Harriett would be nervous and irritable. She had much more reason to be. But even if she were it would be no good. It would be impossible to conceal this frightful fatigue and nervousness. Harriett _must_ understand at once how battered and abject one was. And it was a misrepresentation. Harriett knew nothing of all one had come from; all one was going to in the distance. Maddening.... Lovely; how rich and good they looked, more honest than those in the London shops. Harriett or Mrs. Thimm or Emma had ordered them from some confectioner in Chiswick. Fancy being able to buy anything like that without thinking. How well they went with the black piano and the Coalport tea-service and the garden light coming in. Gerald did not think that women were inferior or that Harriett was a dependent.... But Gerald did not think at all. He knew nothing was too good for Harriett. Oo, _I_ dunno, she would say with a laugh. She thought all men were duffers. Perhaps that was the best way. Selfish babies. But Gerald was not selfish. He would never let Harriett wash up if he were there. He would never pretend to be ignorant of 'mysteries' to get out of doing things. I get out of doing things--in houses. But women won't let me do things. They all know I want to be mooning about. How do they know it? What is it? But they like me to be there. And now in houses there's always this fearful worry and tiredness. What is the meaning of it? Heavy footsteps came slowly downstairs. "I put tea indoors. I thought Miss Miriam'd be warm after her ride." A large undulating voice with a shrewd consoling glance in it. She must have come to the kitchen door to meet Harriett in the hall. "Yes, I'ke spect she will." It was the same voice she had had in the nursery, resonant with practice in speaking to new people. Miriam felt tears coming. "Hullo, you porking? Isn't it porking?" "Simply porked to death my dear. Porked to _Death_" bawled Miriam softly, refreshed and delighted. Harriett was still far off, but she felt as if she had touched her. Even the end of the awful nine months was not changing her. Her freshly shampooed hair had a leisurely glint. There was colour in her cheeks. She surreptitiously rubbed her own hot face. Her appearance would improve now with every hour. By the evening she would be her old self. After tea she would play The Artist's Model and The Geisha.