"Did he say more than he can possibly mean when he took formal leave of you yesterday—forever and ever?"
"Pray don't you call that a sacrifice?" Nick asked.
"Oh, he took it all back, his sacrifice, before he left the house."
"Then has that no meaning? " demanded Mrs. Rooth.
"None that I can make out."
"Oh, I've no patience with you: you can be stupid when you will as well as clever when you will!" the old woman groaned.
"What mamma wishes me to understand and to practise is the particular way to be clever with Mr. Sherringham," said Miriam. "There are doubtless depths of wisdom and virtue in it. But I can only see one way; namely, to be perfectly honest."
"I like to hear you talk—it makes you live, brings you out," Nick mentioned. "And you sit beautifully still. All I want to say is, please continue to do so; remain exactly as you are—it's rather important for the next ten minutes."
"We're washing our dirty linen before you, but it's all right," Miriam answered, "because it shows you what sort of people we are, and that's what you need to know. Don't make me vague and arranged and fine, in this new thing," she continued: "make me characteristic and real; make life, with all its horrid facts and truths, stick out of me. I wish you could put mother in too; make us live there side by side and tell our little story. 'The wonderful actress and her still more wonderful mamma'—don't you think that's an awfully good subject?"
Mrs. Rooth, at this, cried shame on her daughter's wanton
