At the hall door James was whistling for a hansom; it was a dream picture, part of the week that was past. A hansom drew up, the abruptly reined-in horse slipping and scrabbling. Perhaps there was a patient hidden in Mr. Leyton’s quiet sounding surgery. Once more she could watch a patient’s departure; the bright oblong of street … he was away for the weekend. There was no patient. It was a dream picture. Dream figures were coming downstairs. … Mrs. Orly, Mr. Orly, not yet gone; coming hurriedly straight towards her. She rose without thought, calmly unoccupied, watching them come, one person, swiftly and gently. They stood about her, quite near; silently radiating their kindliness.
“I suppose we must say goodbye,” said Mrs. Orly. In her sweet little sallow face not a shadow of reproach; but lively bright sorrow, tears in her eyes.
“I say, we’re awfully sorry about this,” said Mr. Orly gustily, shifting his poised bulk from one foot to the other.
“So am I,” said Miriam seeking for the things they were inviting her to say. She could only smile at them.
“It is a pity,” whispered Mrs. Orly. This was the Orlys; the reality of them; an English reality; utterly unbusinesslike; with no codes but themselves; showing themselves; without disguises of voice or manner, to a dismissed employee; the quality of England; old-fashioned.
“I know.” They both spoke together and then Mrs. Orly was saying “No, Ro can’t bear strangers.”