Miriam had no choice but to settle herself on the cane-seated chair. When Miss Dear had drawn the four drab coloured curtains into place the small cubicle was in semi-darkness.

“I hope the next time you come to tea with me it will be under rather more comfortable circumstances.”

“This is all right,” said Miriam in abstracted impatient continuation of her abounding manner. Miss Dear was arranging herself on the bed as if for a long sitting. The small matter of business would come now. Having had tea it would be impossible to depart the moment the discussion was over. How much did the tea cost here? That basement tea-room, those excited young women and middle-aged women watchful and stealthy and ugly with poverty and shifts, those tea-pots and shabby trays and thick bread and butter were like the Y.W.C.A. public restaurant at the other end of the street—fourpence at the outside; but Miss Dear would have to pay it. She felt trapped ... “a few moments of your time to advise me” and now half the summer twilight had gone and she was pinned in this prison face to face with anything Miss Dear might choose to present; forced by the presences audible in the other cubicles to a continuation of her triumphant tea-room manner.

“You must excuse my dolly.” She arranged her skirt neatly about the ankle of the slippered bandaged foot.

Anyone else would say what is the matter with your foot.... It stuck out, a dreadfully padded mass, dark in the darkness of the dreadful little enclosure in the dreadful dark hive of women, collected together only by poverty.

“Have you left your association?”

“Oh no, de-er; not permanently of course,” said Miss Dear pausing in her tweakings and adjustments of draperies to glance watchfully through the gloom.

“I’m still a member there.”

“Oh yes.”

“But I’ve got to look after myself. They don’t give you a chance.”

“No——”

“It’s rush in and rush out and rush in and rush out.”

“What are you going to do? ... what do you want with me....”

“What do you mean de-er.”

“Well I mean, are you going on nursing.”

“Of course de-er. I was going to tell you.”

Miriam’s restive anger would not allow her to attend fully to the long story. She wandered off with the dreadful idea of nursing a “semi-mental” sitting in a deck-chair in a country garden, the hopeless patient, the nurse half intent on a healthy life and fees for herself, and recalled the sprinkling of uniformed figures amongst the women crowded at the table, all in this dilemma, all eagerly intent; all overworked by associations claiming part of their fees or taking the risks of private nursing, all getting older; all anyhow as long as they went on nursing bound to live on illness; to live with illness knowing that they were living on it. Yet Mr. Leyton had said that no hospital run by a religious sisterhood was any good ... these women were run by doctors....

“You see de-er it’s the best thing any sensible nurse can do as soon as she knows a sufficient number of influenchoo peopoo—physicians and others.”

“Yes, I see.” ... But what has all this to do with me.... “I shall keep in correspondence with my doctors and friends and look after myself a bit.”

“Yes, I see,” said Miriam eagerly. “It’s a splendid plan. What did you want to consult me about?”

“Well you see it’s like this. I must tell you my little difficulty. The folks at thirty-three don’t know I’m here and I don’t want to go back there just at present. I was wondering if when I leave here you’d mind my having my box sent to your lodgings. I shan’t want my reserve things down there.”

“Well—there isn’t much room in my room.”

“It’s a flat box. I got it to go to the Colonies with a patient.”

“Oh, did you go?...” Nurses did see life; though they were never free to see it in their own way. Perhaps some of them ... but then they would not be good nurses.

“Well I didn’t go. It was a chance of a life-time. Such a de-er old gentleman—one of the Fitz-Duff family. It would have been nurse companion. He didn’t want me in uniform. My word. He gave me a complete outfit, took me round, coats and skirts at Peters, gloves at Penberthy’s, a lovely gold-mounted umbrella, everything the heart could desire. He treated me just like a daughter.” During the whole of this speech she redeemed her words by little delicate bridling movements and adjustments, her averted eyes resting in indulgent approval on the old gentleman.

“Why didn’t you go?”

“He died dear.”

“Oh I see.”

“It could go under your bed, out of the way.”

“I’ve got hat-boxes and things. My room is full of things I’m afraid.”

“P’raps your landlady would let it stand somewhere.”

“I might ask her—won’t they let you leave things here?”

“They would I daresay,” frowned Miss Dear “but I have special reasons. I don’t wish to be beholden to the people here.” She patted the tendrils of her hair, looking about the cubicle with cold disapproval.

“I daresay Mrs. Bailey wouldn’t mind. But I hardly like to ask her you know. There seems to be luggage piled up everywhere.”

“Of course I should be prepared to pay a fee.”

... What a wonderful way of living ... dropping a trunk full of things and going off with a portmanteau; starting life afresh in a new strange place. Miriam regarded the limber capable form outstretched on the narrow bed. This dark little enclosure, the forced companionship of the crowd of competing adventuresses, the sounds of them in the near cubicles, the perpetual sound filling the house like a sea of their busy calculations ... all this was only a single passing incident ... beyond it were the wide well-placed lives of wealthy patients.

“Miss Younger is a sweet woman.”

Miriam’s eyes awoke to affronted surprise.

“You know de-er; the wan yow was sitting by at tea-time. I told you just now.”

“Oh” said Miriam guiltily.

Miss Dear dropped her voice; “she’s told me her whole story. She’s a dear sweet Christian woman. She’s working in a settlement. She’s privately engaged to the Bishop. It’s not to be published yet. She’s a sweet woman.”

Miriam rose. “I’ve got to get back, I’m afraid.”

“Don’t hurry away, dear. I hoped you would stay and have some supper.”

“I really can’t” said Miriam wearily.

“Well, perhaps we shall meet again before Thursday. You’ll ask Mrs. Bailey about my box,” said Miss Dear getting to her feet.

“Fancy your remembering her name” said Miriam with loud cheerfulness, fumbling with the curtains.

Miss Dear stood beaming indulgently.

All the way down the unlit stone staircase they rallied each other about the country garden with the deck chairs.

“Well” said Miriam from the street, “I’ll let you know about Mrs. Bailey.”

“All right dear, I shall expect to hear from you; au revoir” cried Miss Dear from the door. In the joy of her escape into the twilight Miriam waved her hand towards the indulgently smiling form and flung away, singing.