Her flight up through the sickly sweet-smelling murk of the long staircase ended in a little top back room brilliant with unglobed gaslight. Miss Dear got her quickly into the room and stood smiling and waiting for a moment for her to speak. Miriam stood nonplussed, catching at the feelings that rushed through her and the thoughts that spoke in her mind. Distracted by the picture of the calm tall, gold-topped figure in the long grey skirt and the pale pink flannel dressing-jacket. Miss Dear was smiling the smile of one who has a great secret to impart. There was a saucepan or frying pan or something--with a handle--sticking out.... "I'm glad you've brought a book" said Miss Dear. The room was closing up and up ... the door was shut. Miriam's exasperation flew out. She felt it fly out. What would Miss Dear do or say? "I 'oped you'd come" she said in her softest most thoughtful tones. "I've been rushing about and rushing about." She turned with her swift limber silent-footed movement to the thing on the gas-ring. "Sit down dear" she said, as one giving permission, and began rustling a paper packet. A haddock came forth and the slender thoughtful fingers plucked and picked at it and lifted it gingerly into the shallow steaming pan. Miriam's thoughts whirled to her room, to the dark sky-domed streets, to the coming morrow. They flew about all over her life. The cane-seated chair thrilled her with a fresh sense of anger. "I've been shopping and rushing about" said Miss Dear disengaging a small crusty loaf from its paper bag. Miriam stared gloomily about and waited. "Do you like haddock, dear?" "Oh--well--I don't know--yes I think I do." The fish smelled very savoury. It was wonderful and astonishing to know how to cook a real meal, in a tiny room; cheap ... the lovely little loaf and the wholesome solid fish would cost less than a small egg and roll and butter at an A.B.C. How did people find out how to do these things? "You know how to cook?" "Haddock doesn't hardly need any cooking" said Miss Dear, shifting the fish about by its tail. 7 "What is your book dear?" "Oh--_Villette_." "Is it a pretty book?" She didn't want to know. She was saying something else.... How to mention it? Why say anything about it? But no one had ever asked. No one had known. This woman was the first. She of all people was causing the first time of speaking of it. "I bought it when I was fifteen," said Miriam vaguely, "and a Byron--with some money I had; seven and six." "Oh yes." "I didn't care for the Byron; but it was a jolly edition; padded leather with rounded corners and gilt edged leaves." "_Oh._" "I've been reading this thing ever since I came back from my holidays." "It doesn't look very big." Miriam's voice trembled. "I don't mean that. When I've finished it I begin again." "I wish you would read it to me."