LITMIR.BIZ

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was a circus.”

      “It's most likely a bottfly,” he said very low.

      “A what?” she asked brightly and unashamed.

      They thought a while. He was sensible all the time of having her opposite him. Suddenly their eyes met, and she smiled to him—a rare, intimate smile, beautiful with brightness and love. Then each looked out of the window.

      The sixteen slow miles of railway journey passed. The mother and son walked down Station Street, feeling the excitement of lovers having an adventure together. In Carrington Street they stopped to hang over the parapet and look at the barges on the canal below.

      “It's just like Venice,” he said, seeing the sunshine on the water that lay between high factory walls.

      “Perhaps,” she answered, smiling.

      They enjoyed the shops immensely.

      “Now you see that blouse,” she would say, “wouldn't that just suit our Annie? And for one-and-eleven-three. Isn't that cheap?”

      “And made of needlework as well,” he said.

      “Yes.”

      They had plenty of time, so they did not hurry. The town was strange and delightful to them. But the boy was tied up inside in a knot of apprehension. He dreaded the interview with Thomas Jordan.

      It was nearly eleven o'clock by St. Peter's Church. They turned up a narrow street that led to the Castle. It was gloomy and old-fashioned, having low dark shops and dark green house doors with brass knockers, and yellow-ochred doorsteps projecting on to the pavement; then another old shop whose small window looked like a cunning, half-shut eye. Mother and son went cautiously, looking everywhere for “Thomas Jordan and Son”. It was like hunting in some wild place. They were on tiptoe of excitement.

      Suddenly they spied a big, dark archway, in which were names of various firms, Thomas Jordan among them.

      “Here it is!” said Mrs. Morel. “But now WHERE is it?”

      They looked round. On one side was a queer, dark, cardboard factory, on the other a Commercial Hotel.

      “It's up the entry,” said Paul.

      And they ventured under the archway, as into the jaws of the dragon. They emerged into a wide yard, like a well, with buildings all round. It was littered with straw and boxes, and cardboard. The sunshine actually caught one crate whose straw was streaming on to the yard like gold. But elsewhere the place was like a pit. There were several doors, and two flights of steps. Straight in front, on a dirty glass door at the top of a staircase, loomed the ominous words “Thomas Jordan and Son—Surgical Appliances.” Mrs. Morel went first, her son followed her. Charles I mounted his scaffold with a lighter heart than had Paul Morel as he followed his mother up the dirty steps to the dirty door.

      She pushed open the door, and stood in pleased surprise. In front of her was a big warehouse, with creamy paper parcels everywhere, and clerks, with their shirt-sleeves rolled back, were going about in an at-home sort of way. The light was subdued, the glossy cream parcels seemed luminous, the counters were of dark brown wood. All was quiet and very homely. Mrs. Morel took two steps forward, then waited. Paul stood behind her. She had on her Sunday bonnet and a black veil; he wore a boy's broad white collar and a Norfolk suit.

      One of the clerks looked up. He was thin and tall, with a small face. His way of looking was alert. Then he glanced round to the other end of the room, where was a glass office. And then he came forward. He did not say anything, but leaned in a gentle, inquiring fashion towards Mrs. Morel.

      “Can I see Mr. Jordan?” she asked.

      “I'll fetch him,” answered the young man.

      He went down to the glass office. A red-faced, white-whiskered old man looked up. He reminded Paul of a pomeranian dog. Then the same little man came up the room. He had short legs, was rather stout, and wore an alpaca jacket. So, with one ear up, as it were, he came stoutly and inquiringly down the room.

      “Good-morning!” he said, hesitating before Mrs. Morel, in doubt as to whether she were a customer or not.

      “Good-morning. I came with my son, Paul Morel. You asked him to call this morning.”

      “Come this way,” said Mr. Jordan, in a rather snappy little manner intended to be businesslike.

      They followed the manufacturer into a grubby little room, upholstered in black American leather, glossy with the rubbing of many customers. On the table was a pile of trusses, yellow wash-leather hoops tangled together. They looked new and living. Paul sniffed the odour of new wash-leather. He wondered what the things were. By this time he was so much stunned that he only noticed the outside things.

      “Sit down!” said Mr. Jordan, irritably pointing Mrs. Morel to a horse-hair chair. She sat on the edge in an uncertain fashion. Then the little old man fidgeted and found a paper.

      “Did you write this letter?” he snapped, thrusting what Paul recognised as his own notepaper in front of him.

      “Yes,” he answered.

      At that moment he was occupied in two ways: first, in feeling guilty for telling a lie, since William had composed the letter; second, in wondering why his letter seemed so strange and different, in the fat, red hand of the man, from what it had been when it lay on the kitchen table. It was like part of himself, gone astray. He resented the way the man held it.

      “Where did you learn to write?” said the old man crossly.

      Paul merely looked at him shamedly, and did not answer.

      “He IS a bad writer,” put in Mrs. Morel apologetically. Then she pushed up her veil. Paul hated her for not being prouder with this common little man, and he loved her face clear of the veil.

      “And you say you know French?” inquired the little man, still sharply.

      “Yes,” said Paul.

      “What school did you go to?”

      “The Board-school.”

      “And did you learn it there?”

      “No—I—” The boy went crimson and got no farther.

      “His godfather gave him lessons,” said Mrs. Morel, half pleading and rather distant.

      Mr. Jordan hesitated. Then, in his irritable manner—he always seemed to keep his hands ready for action—he pulled another sheet of paper from his pocket, unfolded it. The paper made a crackling noise. He handed it to Paul.

      “Read that,” he said.

      It was a note in French, in thin, flimsy foreign handwriting that the boy could not decipher. He stared blankly at the paper.

      “'Monsieur,'” he began; then he looked in great confusion at Mr. Jordan. “It's the—it's the—”

      He wanted to say “handwriting”, but his wits would no longer work even sufficiently to supply him with the word. Feeling an utter fool, and hating Mr. Jordan, he turned desperately to the paper again.

      “'Sir,—Please send me'—er—er—I can't tell the—er—'two pairs—gris fil bas—grey thread stockings'—er—er—'sans—without'—er—I can't tell the words—er—'doigts—fingers'—er—I can't tell the—”

      He wanted to say “handwriting”, but the word still refused to come. Seeing him stuck, Mr. Jordan snatched the paper from him.

      “'Please send by return two pairs grey thread stockings without TOES.'”

      “Well,” flashed Paul, “'doigts' means 'fingers'—as well—as a rule—”

      The little man looked at him. He did not know whether “doigts” meant “fingers”; he knew that for all HIS purposes it meant “toes”.

      “Fingers to stockings!” he snapped.

      “Well,

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