LITMIR.BIZ

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first?”

      “Yes.”

      “H'm!”

      There was a rosy, bright look about her, though she said nothing.

      “It's nice,” he said, “isn't it?”

      “It is.”

      “Why don't you praise me up to the skies?”

      She laughed.

      “I should have the trouble of dragging you down again,” she said.

      But she was full of joy, nevertheless. William had brought her his sporting trophies. She kept them still, and she did not forgive his death. Arthur was handsome—at least, a good specimen—and warm and generous, and probably would do well in the end. But Paul was going to distinguish himself. She had a great belief in him, the more because he was unaware of his own powers. There was so much to come out of him. Life for her was rich with promise. She was to see herself fulfilled. Not for nothing had been her struggle.

      Several times during the exhibition Mrs. Morel went to the Castle unknown to Paul. She wandered down the long room looking at the other exhibits. Yes, they were good. But they had not in them a certain something which she demanded for her satisfaction. Some made her jealous, they were so good. She looked at them a long time trying to find fault with them. Then suddenly she had a shock that made her heart beat. There hung Paul's picture! She knew it as if it were printed on her heart.

      “Name—Paul Morel—First Prize.”

      It looked so strange, there in public, on the walls of the Castle gallery, where in her lifetime she had seen so many pictures. And she glanced round to see if anyone had noticed her again in front of the same sketch.

      But she felt a proud woman. When she met well-dressed ladies going home to the Park, she thought to herself:

      “Yes, you look very well—but I wonder if YOUR son has two first prizes in the Castle.”

      And she walked on, as proud a little woman as any in Nottingham. And Paul felt he had done something for her, if only a trifle. All his work was hers.

      One day, as he was going up Castle Gate, he met Miriam. He had seen her on the Sunday, and had not expected to meet her in town. She was walking with a rather striking woman, blonde, with a sullen expression, and a defiant carriage. It was strange how Miriam, in her bowed, meditative bearing, looked dwarfed beside this woman with the handsome shoulders. Miriam watched Paul searchingly. His gaze was on the stranger, who ignored him. The girl saw his masculine spirit rear its head.

      “Hello!” he said, “you didn't tell me you were coming to town.”

      “No,” replied Miriam, half apologetically. “I drove in to Cattle Market with father.”

      He looked at her companion.

      “I've told you about Mrs. Dawes,” said Miriam huskily; she was nervous. “Clara, do you know Paul?”

      “I think I've seen him before,” replied Mrs. Dawes indifferently, as she shook hands with him. She had scornful grey eyes, a skin like white honey, and a full mouth, with a slightly lifted upper lip that did not know whether it was raised in scorn of all men or out of eagerness to be kissed, but which believed the former. She carried her head back, as if she had drawn away in contempt, perhaps from men also. She wore a large, dowdy hat of black beaver, and a sort of slightly affected simple dress that made her look rather sack-like. She was evidently poor, and had not much taste. Miriam usually looked nice.

      “Where have you seen me?” Paul asked of the woman.

      She looked at him as if she would not trouble to answer. Then:

      “Walking with Louie Travers,” she said.

      Louie was one of the “Spiral” girls.

      “Why, do you know her?” he asked.

      She did not answer. He turned to Miriam.

      “Where are you going?” he asked.

      “To the Castle.”

      “What train are you going home by?”

      “I am driving with father. I wish you could come too. What time are you free?”

      “You know not till eight to-night, damn it!”

      And directly the two women moved on.

      Paul remembered that Clara Dawes was the daughter of an old friend of Mrs. Leivers. Miriam had sought her out because she had once been Spiral overseer at Jordan's, and because her husband, Baxter Dawes, was smith for the factory, making the irons for cripple instruments, and so on. Through her Miriam felt she got into direct contact with Jordan's, and could estimate better Paul's position. But Mrs. Dawes was separated from her husband, and had taken up Women's Rights. She was supposed to be clever. It interested Paul.

      Baxter Dawes he knew and disliked. The smith was a man of thirty-one or thirty-two. He came occasionally through Paul's corner—a big, well-set man, also striking to look at, and handsome. There was a peculiar similarity between himself and his wife. He had the same white skin, with a clear, golden tinge. His hair was of soft brown, his moustache was golden. And he had a similar defiance in his bearing and manner. But then came the difference. His eyes, dark brown and quick-shifting, were dissolute. They protruded very slightly, and his eyelids hung over them in a way that was half hate. His mouth, too, was sensual. His whole manner was of cowed defiance, as if he were ready to knock anybody down who disapproved of him—perhaps because he really disapproved of himself.

      From the first day he had hated Paul. Finding the lad's impersonal, deliberate gaze of an artist on his face, he got into a fury.

      “What are yer lookin' at?” he sneered, bullying.

      The boy glanced away. But the smith used to stand behind the counter and talk to Mr. Pappleworth. His speech was dirty, with a kind of rottenness. Again he found the youth with his cool, critical gaze fixed on his face. The smith started round as if he had been stung.

      “What'r yer lookin' at, three hap'orth o' pap?” he snarled.

      The boy shrugged his shoulders slightly.

      “Why yer—!” shouted Dawes.

      “Leave him alone,” said Mr. Pappleworth, in that insinuating voice which means, “He's only one of your good little sops who can't help it.”

      Since that time the boy used to look at the man every time he came through with the same curious criticism, glancing away before he met the smith's eye. It made Dawes furious. They hated each other in silence.

      Clara Dawes had no children. When she had left her husband the home had been broken up, and she had gone to live with her mother. Dawes lodged with his sister. In the same house was a sister-in-law, and somehow Paul knew that this girl, Louie Travers, was now Dawes's woman. She was a handsome, insolent hussy, who mocked at the youth, and yet flushed if he walked along to the station with her as she went home.

      The next time he went to see Miriam it was Saturday evening. She had a fire in the parlour, and was waiting for him. The others, except her father and mother and the young children, had gone out, so the two had the parlour together. It was a long, low, warm room. There were three of Paul's small sketches on the wall, and his photo was on the mantelpiece. On the table and on the high old rosewood piano were bowls of coloured leaves. He sat in the armchair, she crouched on the hearthrug near his feet. The glow was warm on her handsome, pensive face as she kneeled there like a devotee.

      “What did you think of Mrs. Dawes?” she asked quietly.

      “She doesn't look very amiable,” he replied.

      “No, but don't you think she's a fine woman?” she said, in a deep tone,

      “Yes—in stature. But without a grain of taste. I like her for some things. IS she disagreeable?”

      “I don't think so. I think she's dissatisfied.”

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