574 ANGEL PAVEMENT

did I? My dear, don't go. I wept and wept-yes,
honestly I did. It was just like the Burpenfield with
the lid off, really it was—awful! When I got back last
night, I said to myself, 1 can't bear it. I can't bear it'"

"I think that's stupid, Morrison," said Miss Matfield,
sitting in the only chair.

"What's stupid?"

"All that-about not bearing it and about the Club
being the Chehov play. It's not a bit like it."

"How do you know, my dear? You haven't seen the
play."

"I've read it."

"I don't suppose it's the same, just reading it. I admit
it's not like this at all on the surface, but honestly it's
got the same what-is-it—atmosphere."

"It hasn't a bit, I tell you," said Miss Matfield
earnestly. "And I really think it's stupid talking like
that about this place. It's ridiculous—all silly exaggera-
tion. When you talk like that, Morrison, you annoy
me™"

"Since when, my dear?"

"Well, I've made up my mind that it's simply absurd,
besides being terribly depressing, going about talking
like that about the life we lead here. It makes it seem
fifty times worse than it is. And, anyhow, it's not bad
really. It's our own fault if it is, Yes, it is,"

"My dear, you can't mean it."

"Yes, I do mean it."

Having said this, Miss Matfield put down her
cigarette, looked at the floor for a minute, then quite
suddenly and unaccountably burst into tears.

"Sorry!" she cried, five minutes later, when it was all
over. "I'm not going mad, though I dare say it seemed