"Hoh! Has she?" The brisk footsteps approached and the door was closed. The dimly shining mysteries of the room moved about Miriam, the outside darkness flowing up to the windows moved away as the tall dressing-gowned figure lowered the thin drab loosely rattling Venetian blinds; the light seemed to go up and distant objects became more visible; the crowded bookshelf the dark littered table under it, the empty table pushed against the wall near the window--the bamboo bookshelf between the windows above a square mystery draped to the ground with a table cover--the little sofa behind Mag's chair, the little pictures, cattle gazing out across a bridge of snow, cattish complacent sweepy women. Albert...? Moore? the framed photographs of Dickens and Irving, the litter on the serge draped mantelpiece in front of the mirror of the bamboo overmantel, silver candlesticks, photographs of German women and Canon Wilberforce ... all the riches of comfortable life. "You are late." "Yes I am fear-fully late." "Why are you late Frederika Elizabeth von Bohlen?" The powerful rounded square figure was in the leather armchair opposite the blaze, strongly moulded brown knickered black stockinged legs comfortably crossed stuck firmly out between the heavy soft folds of a grey flannel dressing gown. The shoes had gone, grey woollen bedroom slippers blurred all but the shapely small ankles. Mag was lighting another cigarette, von Bohlen was not doing needlework, the room settled suddenly to its best rich exciting blur. "Tonight I must smoke or die." "_Must_ you, my dear." "Why." "To-_nate_,--a, ay must smoke--a, or _daye_." "Es ist bestimmt, in Gottes Rath." "Tell us what you think of the Pierson, child." "She was awfully nice. Is it your landlady?" "Yes--isn't she nice? We think she's extraordinary--all things considered. You know we hadn't the least idea what she was when we came here." "What is she?" "Well--er--you embarrass me, child, how shall we put it to her, Jan?" "D'you mean to say she's improper?" "Yes--she's improper. We hadn't the faintest notion of it when we came." "How extraordinary." "It is extraordinary. We're living in an improper house--the whole street's improper we're discovering." "How absolutely awful." "_Now_ we know why Mother Cosway hinted when we left her to come here that we wanted to be free for devil's mirth." "How did you find out?" "Henriette told us; you see she works for the Pierson." "What did she tell you?" "Well--she told us." "Six"--laughed Mag, quoting towards Jan. "Six," trumpeted Jan "and if not six, seven." They both laughed. "In one evening," trumpeted Jan. "I say are you going to leave?" The thought of the improper street was terrible and horrible; but they might go right away to some other part of London. Mag answered instantly but the interval had seemed long and Miriam was cold with anxiety. "No; we don't see why we should."