one can get," he answered.

"You'll get everything now, I'm sure, shan't you?" Mrs. Rooth asked with
an inflexion that called back to him comically--the source of the sound
was so different--the very vibrations he had heard the day before from
Lady Agnes.

"He's going to glory and he'll forget all about us--forget he has ever
known such low people. So we shall never see him again, and it's better
so. Good-bye, good-bye," Miriam repeated; "the brougham must be there,
but I won't take you. I want to talk to mother about you, and we shall
say things not fit for you to hear. Oh I'll let you know what we
lose--don't be afraid," she added to Mrs. Rooth. "He's the rising star
of diplomacy."

"I knew it from the first--I know how things turn out for such people as
you!" cried the old woman, gazing fondly at Sherringham. "But you don't
mean to say you're not coming to-morrow night?"

"Don't--don't; it's great folly," Miriam interposed; "and it's quite
needless, since you saw me to-day."

Peter turned from the mother to the daughter, the former of whom broke
out to the latter: "Oh you dear rogue, to say one has _seen_ you yet!
You know how you'll come up to it--you'll be beyond everything."

"Yes, I shall be there--certainly," Peter said, at the door, to Mrs.
Rooth.

"Oh you dreadful goose!" Miriam called after him. But he went out
without looking round at her.

BOOK SEVENTH

XLII

Nick Dormer had for the hour quite taken up his abode at his studio,
where Biddy usually arrived after breakfast to give him news of the
state of affairs in Calcutta Gardens and where many letters and
telegrams were now addressed him. Among such missives, on the morning of
the Saturday on which Peter Sherringham had promised to dine at the
other house, was a note from Miriam Rooth, informing Nick that if he
shouldn't telegraph to put her off she would turn up about half-past
eleven, probably with her mother, for just one more sitting. She added
that it was a nervous day for her and that she couldn't keep still, so
that it would really be very kind to let her come to him as a refuge.
She wished to stay away from the theatre, where everything was now
settled--or so much the worse for the others if it wasn't--till the
evening; in spite of which she should if left to herself be sure to go
there. It would keep her quiet and soothe her to sit--he could keep her
quiet (he was such a blessing that way!) at any time. Therefore she
wo