LITMIR.BIZ

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anything to eat, you'd better get it.”

      “I don't want anything.”

      It was his mother's custom to bring him some trifle for supper on Friday night, the night of luxury for the colliers. He was too angry to go and find it in the pantry this night. This insulted her.

      “If I WANTED you to go to Selby on Friday night, I can imagine the scene,” said Mrs. Morel. “But you're never too tired to go if SHE will come for you. Nay, you neither want to eat nor drink then.”

      “I can't let her go alone.”

      “Can't you? And why does she come?”

      “Not because I ask her.”

      “She doesn't come without you want her—”

      “Well, what if I DO want her—” he replied.

      “Why, nothing, if it was sensible or reasonable. But to go trapseing up there miles and miles in the mud, coming home at midnight, and got to go to Nottingham in the morning—”

      “If I hadn't, you'd be just the same.”

      “Yes, I should, because there's no sense in it. Is she so fascinating that you must follow her all that way?” Mrs. Morel was bitterly sarcastic. She sat still, with averted face, stroking with a rhythmic, jerked movement, the black sateen of her apron. It was a movement that hurt Paul to see.

      “I do like her,” he said, “but—”

      “LIKE her!” said Mrs. Morel, in the same biting tones. “It seems to me you like nothing and nobody else. There's neither Annie, nor me, nor anyone now for you.”

      “What nonsense, mother—you know I don't love her—I—I tell you I DON'T love her—she doesn't even walk with my arm, because I don't want her to.”

      “Then why do you fly to her so often?”

      “I DO like to talk to her—I never said I didn't. But I DON'T love her.”

      “Is there nobody else to talk to?”

      “Not about the things we talk of. There's a lot of things that you're not interested in, that—”

      “What things?”

      Mrs. Morel was so intense that Paul began to pant.

      “Why—painting—and books. YOU don't care about Herbert Spencer.”

      “No,” was the sad reply. “And YOU won't at my age.”

      “Well, but I do now—and Miriam does—”

      “And how do you know,” Mrs. Morel flashed defiantly, “that I shouldn't. Do you ever try me!”

      “But you don't, mother, you know you don't care whether a picture's decorative or not; you don't care what MANNER it is in.”

      “How do you know I don't care? Do you ever try me? Do you ever talk to me about these things, to try?”

      “But it's not that that matters to you, mother, you know t's not.”

      “What is it, then—what is it, then, that matters to me?” she flashed. He knitted his brows with pain.

      “You're old, mother, and we're young.”

      He only meant that the interests of HER age were not the interests of his. But he realised the moment he had spoken that he had said the wrong thing.

      “Yes, I know it well—I am old. And therefore I may stand aside; I have nothing more to do with you. You only want me to wait on you—the rest is for Miriam.”

      He could not bear it. Instinctively he realised that he was life to her. And, after all, she was the chief thing to him, the only supreme thing.

      “You know it isn't, mother, you know it isn't!”

      She was moved to pity by his cry.

      “It looks a great deal like it,” she said, half putting aside her despair.

      “No, mother—I really DON'T love her. I talk to her, but I want to come home to you.”

      He had taken off his collar and tie, and rose, bare-throated, to go to bed. As he stooped to kiss his mother, she threw her arms round his neck, hid her face on his shoulder, and cried, in a whimpering voice, so unlike her own that he writhed in agony:

      “I can't bear it. I could let another woman—but not her. She'd leave me no room, not a bit of room—”

      And immediately he hated Miriam bitterly.

      “And I've never—you know, Paul—I've never had a husband—not really—”

      He stroked his mother's hair, and his mouth was on her throat.

      “And she exults so in taking you from me—she's not like ordinary girls.”

      “Well, I don't love her, mother,” he murmured, bowing his head and hiding his eyes on her shoulder in misery. His mother kissed him a long, fervent kiss.

      “My boy!” she said, in a voice trembling with passionate love.

      Without knowing, he gently stroked her face.

      “There,” said his mother, “now go to bed. You'll be so tired in the morning.” As she was speaking she heard her husband coming. “There's your father—now go.” Suddenly she looked at him almost as if in fear. “Perhaps I'm selfish. If you want her, take her, my boy.”

      His mother looked so strange, Paul kissed her, trembling.

      “Ha—mother!” he said softly.

      Morel came in, walking unevenly. His hat was over one corner of his eye. He balanced in the doorway.

      “At your mischief again?” he said venomously.

      Mrs. Morel's emotion turned into sudden hate of the drunkard who had come in thus upon her.

      “At any rate, it is sober,” she said.

      “H'm—h'm! h'm—h'm!” he sneered. He went into the passage, hung up his hat and coat. Then they heard him go down three steps to the pantry. He returned with a piece of pork-pie in his fist. It was what Mrs. Morel had bought for her son.

      “Nor was that bought for you. If you can give me no more than twenty-five shillings, I'm sure I'm not going to buy you pork-pie to stuff, after you've swilled a bellyful of beer.”

      “Wha-at—wha-at!” snarled Morel, toppling in his balance. “Wha-at—not for me?” He looked at the piece of meat and crust, and suddenly, in a vicious spurt of temper, flung it into the fire.

      Paul started to his feet.

      “Waste your own stuff!” he cried.

      “What—what!” suddenly shouted Morel, jumping up and clenching his fist. “I'll show yer, yer young jockey!”

      “All right!” said Paul viciously, putting his head on one side. “Show me!”

      He would at that moment dearly have loved to have a smack at something. Morel was half crouching, fists up, ready to spring. The young man stood, smiling with his lips.

      “Ussha!” hissed the father, swiping round with a great stroke just past his son's face. He dared not, even though so close, really touch the young man, but swerved an inch away.

      “Right!” said Paul, his eyes upon the side of his father's mouth, where in another instant his fist would have hit. He ached for that stroke. But he heard a faint moan from behind. His mother was deadly pale and dark at the mouth. Morel was dancing up to deliver another blow.

      “Father!” said Paul, so that the word rang.

      Morel started, and stood at attention.

      “Mother!” moaned the boy. “Mother!”

      She began to

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