"Well--it's a matter of taste and fancy" sighed Mr. Orly heavily. "Chacun à son goût--shake an ass and go, as they say. One's enough for me. I can't think why they do it myself--sheer well to call a spade a spade sheer bestiality those French writers--don't ye think so, eh?" "Well no. I don't think I can accept that as a summary of French literature." "Eh well, it's beyond me. I suppose I'm not up to it. Behind the times. Not cultured enough. Not cultured enough I guess. Ready dearest?" he said addressing his wife and getting to his feet with a groan. "Miss Hens'n's a great admirer of Emmil Zola." "She says some of his books are pretty, didn't you, Miss Hens'n. It isn't fair to judge from one book, Ro." "No my love no. Quite right. Quite right. I'm wrong--no doubt. Getting old and soft. Things go on too fast for me." "Don't be so silly, Ro." 13 Drowsily and automatically Miriam went on rolling tin and gold--sliding a crisp thick foil of tin from the pink tissue paper leaved book on to the serviette ... a firm metallic crackle ... then a silent layer of thin gold ... then more tin ... adjusting the three slippery leaves in perfect superposition without touching them with her hands, cutting the final square into three strips, with the long sharp straight bladed scissors--the edges of the metal adhering to each other as the scissors went along--thinking again with vague distant dreamy amusement of the boy who cut the rubber tyre to mend it--rolling the flat strips with a fold of the serviette, deftly until they turned into neat little twisted crinkled rolls--wondering how she had acquired the knack. She went on and on lazily, unable to stop, sitting back in her chair and working with outstretched arms, until a small fancy soap box was filled with the twists--enough to last the practice for a month or two. The sight filled her with a sense of achievement and zeal. Putting on its lid she placed the soap box on the second chair. Lazily, stupidly, longing for tea--all the important clerical work left undone, Mr. Orly's surgery to clear up for the day--still she was working in the practice. She glanced approvingly at the soap box ... but there were ages to pass before tea. She did not dare to look at her clock. Had the hall clock struck three? Bending to a drawer she drew out a strip of amadou--offended at the sight of her red wrist coming out of the harsh cheap black sleeve and the fingers bloated by cold. They looked lifeless; no one else's hands looked so lifeless. Part of the amadou was soft and warm to her touch, part hard and stringy. Cutting out a soft square she cut it rapidly into tiny cubes collecting them in a pleasant flummery heap on the blotting paper--Mr. Hancock should have those; they belonged to his perfect treatment of his patients; it was quite just. Cutting a strip of the harsher part, she pulled and teased it into comparative softness and cut it up into a second pile of fragments.