essence distinguished, perfectly simple, yet strong with a great and
natural pride. It never occurred to her soul to doubt its own great
value--or to question that of others. She somehow or other made the
little secretary feel of great account. He had never quite realized his
own value before. Her presence, her eyes, her voice served to bring it
out. And a very curious detail that he always mentions just at this point
is the fact that it never occurred to him to wonder what her surname
might be, or whether, indeed, she had one at all. Her name, Miriam,
seemed sufficient. The rest of her--if there was any other part of her
not described by those three syllables--lay safely and naturally included
somewhere in _his own_ name. "Spinrobin" described her as well as
himself. But "Miriam" completed his own personality and at the same time
extended it. He felt all wrapped up and at peace with her. With Philip
Skale, Mrs. Mawle and Miriam, he, Robert Spinrobin, felt that he
naturally belonged as "one of the family." They were like the four notes
in the chord: Skale, the great bass; Mawle, the mellow alto; himself and
Miriam, respectively, the echoing tenor and the singing soprano. The
imagery by which, in the depths of his mind, he sought to interpret to
himself the whole singular business ran, it seems, even then to music and
the analogies of music.

The meal was short and very simple. Mrs. Mawle carved the joint at the
end of the table, handed the vegetables and looked after their wants with
the precision of long habit. Her skill, in spite of the withered arm, was
noteworthy. They talked little, Mr. Skale hardly at all. Miriam spoke
from time to time across the table to the secretary. She did not ask
questions, she stated facts, as though she already knew all about his
feelings and tastes. She may have been twenty years of age, perhaps, but
in some way she took him back to childhood. And she said things with the
simple audacity of a child, ignoring Mr. Skale's presence. It seemed to