LITMIR.BIZ

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already began to suffer. They went together towards the house. He took the clips off his trousers, but was too lazy to brush the dust from his shoes, in spite of the socks and tie.

      Clara sat in the cool parlour reading. He saw the nape of her white neck, and the fine hair lifted from it. She rose, looking at him indifferently. To shake hands she lifted her arm straight, in a manner that seemed at once to keep him at a distance, and yet to fling something to him. He noticed how her breasts swelled inside her blouse, and how her shoulder curved handsomely under the thin muslin at the top of her arm.

      “You have chosen a fine day,” he said.

      “It happens so,” she said.

      “Yes,” he said; “I am glad.”

      She sat down, not thanking him for his politeness.

      “What have you been doing all morning?” asked Paul of Miriam.

      “Well, you see,” said Miriam, coughing huskily, “Clara only came with father—and so—she's not been here very long.”

      Clara sat leaning on the table, holding aloof. He noticed her hands were large, but well kept. And the skin on them seemed almost coarse, opaque, and white, with fine golden hairs. She did not mind if he observed her hands. She intended to scorn him. Her heavy arm lay negligently on the table. Her mouth was closed as if she were offended, and she kept her face slightly averted.

      “You were at Margaret Bonford's meeting the other evening,” he said to her.

      Miriam did not know this courteous Paul. Clara glanced at him.

      “Yes,” she said.

      “Why,” asked Miriam, “how do you know?”

      “I went in for a few minutes before the train came,” he answered.

      Clara turned away again rather disdainfully.

      “I think she's a lovable little woman,” said Paul.

      “Margaret Bonford!” exclaimed Clara. “She's a great deal cleverer than most men.”

      “Well, I didn't say she wasn't,” he said, deprecating. “She's lovable for all that.”

      “And, of course, that is all that matters,” said Clara witheringly.

      He rubbed his head, rather perplexed, rather annoyed.

      “I suppose it matters more than her cleverness,” he said; “which, after all, would never get her to heaven.”

      “It's not heaven she wants to get—it's her fair share on earth,” retorted Clara. She spoke as if he were responsible for some deprivation which Miss Bonford suffered.

      “Well,” he said, “I thought she was warm, and awfully nice—only too frail. I wished she was sitting comfortably in peace—”

      “'Darning her husband's stockings,'” said Clara scathingly.

      “I'm sure she wouldn't mind darning even my stockings,” he said. “And I'm sure she'd do them well. Just as I wouldn't mind blacking her boots if she wanted me to.”

      But Clara refused to answer this sally of his. He talked to Miriam for a little while. The other woman held aloof.

      “Well,” he said, “I think I'll go and see Edgar. Is he on the land?”

      “I believe,” said Miriam, “he's gone for a load of coal. He should be back directly.”

      “Then,” he said, “I'll go and meet him.”

      Miriam dared not propose anything for the three of them. He rose and left them.

      On the top road, where the gorse was out, he saw Edgar walking lazily beside the mare, who nodded her white-starred forehead as she dragged the clanking load of coal. The young farmer's face lighted up as he saw his friend. Edgar was good-looking, with dark, warm eyes. His clothes were old and rather disreputable, and he walked with considerable pride.

      “Hello!” he said, seeing Paul bareheaded. “Where are you going?”

      “Came to meet you. Can't stand 'Nevermore.'”

      Edgar's teeth flashed in a laugh of amusement.

      “Who is 'Nevermore'?” he asked.

      “The lady—Mrs. Dawes—it ought to be Mrs. The Raven that quothed 'Nevermore.'”

      Edgar laughed with glee.

      “Don't you like her?” he asked.

      “Not a fat lot,” said Paul. “Why, do you?”

      “No!” The answer came with a deep ring of conviction. “No!” Edgar pursed up his lips. “I can't say she's much in my line.” He mused a little. Then: “But why do you call her 'Nevermore'?” he asked.

      “Well,” said Paul, “if she looks at a man she says haughtily 'Nevermore,' and if she looks at herself in the looking-glass she says disdainfully 'Nevermore,' and if she thinks back she says it in disgust, and if she looks forward she says it cynically.”

      Edgar considered this speech, failed to make much out of it, and said, laughing:

      “You think she's a man-hater?”

      “SHE thinks she is,” replied Paul.

      “But you don't think so?”

      “No,” replied Paul.

      “Wasn't she nice with you, then?”

      “Could you imagine her NICE with anybody?” asked the young man.

      Edgar laughed. Together they unloaded the coal in the yard. Paul was rather self-conscious, because he knew Clara could see if she looked out of the window. She didn't look.

      On Saturday afternoons the horses were brushed down and groomed. Paul and Edgar worked together, sneezing with the dust that came from the pelts of Jimmy and Flower.

      “Do you know a new song to teach me?” said Edgar.

      He continued to work all the time. The back of his neck was sun-red when he bent down, and his fingers that held the brush were thick. Paul watched him sometimes.

      “'Mary Morrison'?” suggested the younger.

      Edgar agreed. He had a good tenor voice, and he loved to learn all the songs his friend could teach him, so that he could sing whilst he was carting. Paul had a very indifferent baritone voice, but a good ear. However, he sang softly, for fear of Clara. Edgar repeated the line in a clear tenor. At times they both broke off to sneeze, and first one, then the other, abused his horse.

      Miriam was impatient of men. It took so little to amuse them—even Paul. She thought it anomalous in him that he could be so thoroughly absorbed in a triviality.

      It was tea-time when they had finished.

      “What song was that?” asked Miriam.

      Edgar told her. The conversation turned to singing.

      “We have such jolly times,” Miriam said to Clara.

      Mrs. Dawes ate her meal in a slow, dignified way. Whenever the men were present she grew distant.

      “Do you like singing?” Miriam asked her.

      “If it is good,” she said.

      Paul, of course, coloured.

      “You mean if it is high-class and trained?” he said.

      “I think a voice needs training before the singing is anything,” she said.

      “You might as well insist on having people's voices trained before you allowed them to talk,” he replied. “Really, people sing for their own pleasure, as a rule.”

      “And it may be for other people's discomfort.”

      “Then the other people

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