I

and felt the same in the night. Nothing was missing. Everything that had happened since she had arrived on the doorstep came freshly back and on into today, flowing over the embarrassment of the parcels. There was nothing to say; no words that could express it; a tune.⁠ ⁠… That’s the Mistletoe Bough⁠ ⁠… she said reflectively. Florrie was sitting very upright exactly opposite, quietly munching, her knife and fork quiet on her plate. Grace’s small hands and mouth were gravely labouring. She began swiftly on her own meal, listening for the tune with an intelligent face. If Florrie would take off her attention she could let her face become a blank and recover the tune. Impossible to go on until she had recalled it. She sought for some distracting remark. Grace spoke. Florrie turned towards her. Miriam radiated agreement and sipped her hot coffee. Its strong aroma flowed through her senses. She laughed sociably. Someone else laughed.⁠—Of course they don’t said Florrie in her most grinding voice and laughed. Two voices broke out together. Miriam listened to the tones, glancing intelligence accordingly, umpiring the contest, her mind wandering blissfully about. Presently there was a silence. Mrs. Philps had bridled and said something decisive. Miriam guiltily reread the remark. She could not think of anything that could be made to follow it with any show of sincerity and sat feeling large and conspicuous. Mrs. Philps’ face had grown dark and old. Miriam glanced restively at her meaning.⁠ ⁠… Large terrible illnesses, the doctor coming, trouble amongst families, someone sitting paralyzed; poverty, everything being different.⁠ ⁠… —D’you like a snowy Christmas, Miriam? asked Florrie shyly. Miriam looked across. She looked very young, a child speaking on sufferance, saying the first thing that occurs lest someone should remark that it was time to go to bed. Hilarious replies rushed to Miriam’s mind. They would have reawakened the laughter and talk, but there would have been resentment in the widowed figure at the head of the table, the figure that had walked with arch dignity into the big north London shop and chosen the blouse. The weight in the air was dreadful⁠—There don’t seem to be snowy Christmases nowadays she said turning deferentially to