ere all the week,
that went, like a garland, in and out of everything, to hear her play,
by accident, and acknowledge the difference in her playing. Oh yes,
besides seeing them all she wanted them to hear her play.... She must
stay... she glanced round the room. It was here, somehow, somewhere, in
this roomful of girls, centring in the Germans at her end of the table,
reflected on to the English group, something of that influence that
had made her play. It was in the sheen on Minna's hair, in Emma's
long-plaited schoolgirlishness, somehow in Clara's anger. It was here,
here, and she was in it.... She must pretend to be writing letters or
someone might speak to her. She would hate anyone who challenged her at
this moment. Jimmie might. It was just the kind of thing Jimmie would
do. Her eyes were always roving round.... There were a lot of
people like that.... It was all right when you wanted anything or
to--to--"create a diversion"--when everybody was quarrelling. But at the
wrong times it was awful.... The Radnors and Pooles were like that. She
could have killed them often. "Hullo, Mim," they would say. "Wake up!"
or "What's the row!" and if you asked why, they would laugh and tell you
you looked like a dying duck in a thunderstorm.... It was all right.
No one had noticed her--or if either of the Germans had they would not
think like that--they would understand--she believed in a way, they
would understand. At the worst they would look at you as if they were
somehow with you and say something sentimental. "Sie hat Heimweh" or
something like that. Minna would. Minna's forget-me-not blue eyes behind
her pink nose would be quite real and alive.... Ein Blatt--she dipped
her pen and wrote Ein Blatt... aus... Ein Blatt aus sommerlichen Tagen
that thing they had begun last Saturday afternoon and gone on and on
with until she had hated the sound of the words. How did it go on? "Ein
Blatt aus sommerlichen Tagen," she breathed in a half whisper. Minna
heard--and without looking up from her writing quietly repeated the
verse. Her voice rose and trembled slightly on the last line.

"Oh, chuck it, Minna," groaned Bertha Martin.

"Tchookitt," repeated Minna absently, and went on with her writing.

Miriam was scribbling down the words as quickly as she could--

"Ein Blatt aus sommerlichen Tagen Ich nahm es so im Wandern mit Auf dass
es einst mir moge sagen Wie laut die Nachtigall geschlagen Wie grun der
Wald den ich--durchtritt--"