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me from you?”

      “Well, you wouldn't ask her to marry your mother as well as you,” Mrs. Morel smiled.

      “She could do what she liked; she wouldn't have to interfere.”

      “She wouldn't—till she'd got you—and then you'd see.”

      “I never will see. I'll never marry while I've got you—I won't.”

      “But I shouldn't like to leave you with nobody, my boy,” she cried.

      “You're not going to leave me. What are you? Fifty-three! I'll give you till seventy-five. There you are, I'm fat and forty-four. Then I'll marry a staid body. See!”

      His mother sat and laughed.

      “Go to bed,” she said—“go to bed.”

      “And we'll have a pretty house, you and me, and a servant, and it'll be just all right. I s'll perhaps be rich with my painting.”

      “Will you go to bed!”

      “And then you s'll have a pony-carriage. See yourself—a little Queen Victoria trotting round.”

      “I tell you to go to bed,” she laughed.

      He kissed her and went. His plans for the future were always the same.

      Mrs. Morel sat brooding—about her daughter, about Paul, about Arthur. She fretted at losing Annie. The family was very closely bound. And she felt she MUST live now, to be with her children. Life was so rich for her. Paul wanted her, and so did Arthur. Arthur never knew how deeply he loved her. He was a creature of the moment. Never yet had he been forced to realise himself. The army had disciplined his body, but not his soul. He was in perfect health and very handsome. His dark, vigorous hair sat close to his smallish head. There was something childish about his nose, something almost girlish about his dark blue eyes. But he had the fun red mouth of a man under his brown moustache, and his jaw was strong. It was his father's mouth; it was the nose and eyes of her own mother's people—good-looking, weak-principled folk. Mrs. Morel was anxious about him. Once he had really run the rig he was safe. But how far would he go?

      The army had not really done him any good. He resented bitterly the authority of the officers. He hated having to obey as if he were an animal. But he had too much sense to kick. So he turned his attention to getting the best out of it. He could sing, he was a boon-companion. Often he got into scrapes, but they were the manly scrapes that are easily condoned. So he made a good time out of it, whilst his self-respect was in suppression. He trusted to his good looks and handsome figure, his refinement, his decent education to get him most of what he wanted, and he was not disappointed. Yet he was restless. Something seemed to gnaw him inside. He was never still, he was never alone. With his mother he was rather humble. Paul he admired and loved and despised slightly. And Paul admired and loved and despised him slightly.

      Mrs. Morel had had a few pounds left to her by her father, and she decided to buy her son out of the army. He was wild with joy. Now he was like a lad taking a holiday.

      He had always been fond of Beatrice Wyld, and during his furlough he picked up with her again. She was stronger and better in health. The two often went long walks together, Arthur taking her arm in soldier's fashion, rather stiffly. And she came to play the piano whilst he sang. Then Arthur would unhook his tunic collar. He grew flushed, his eyes were bright, he sang in a manly tenor. Afterwards they sat together on the sofa. He seemed to flaunt his body: she was aware of him so—the strong chest, the sides, the thighs in their close-fitting trousers.

      He liked to lapse into the dialect when he talked to her. She would sometimes smoke with him. Occasionally she would only take a few whiffs at his cigarette.

      “Nay,” he said to her one evening, when she reached for his cigarette. “Nay, tha doesna. I'll gi'e thee a smoke kiss if ter's a mind.”

      “I wanted a whiff, no kiss at all,” she answered.

      “Well, an' tha s'lt ha'e a whiff,” he said, “along wi' t' kiss.”

      “I want a draw at thy fag,” she cried, snatching for the cigarette between his lips.

      He was sitting with his shoulder touching her. She was small and quick as lightning. He just escaped.

      “I'll gi'e thee a smoke kiss,” he said.

      “Tha'rt a knivey nuisance, Arty Morel,” she said, sitting back.

      “Ha'e a smoke kiss?”

      The soldier leaned forward to her, smiling. His face was near hers.

      “Shonna!” she replied, turning away her head.

      He took a draw at his cigarette, and pursed up his mouth, and put his lips close to her. His dark-brown cropped moustache stood out like a brush. She looked at the puckered crimson lips, then suddenly snatched the cigarette from his fingers and darted away. He, leaping after her, seized the comb from her back hair. She turned, threw the cigarette at him. He picked it up, put it in his mouth, and sat down.

      “Nuisance!” she cried. “Give me my comb!”

      She was afraid that her hair, specially done for him, would come down. She stood with her hands to her head. He hid the comb between his knees.

      “I've non got it,” he said.

      The cigarette trembled between his lips with laughter as he spoke.

      “Liar!” she said.

      “'S true as I'm here!” he laughed, showing his hands.

      “You brazen imp!” she exclaimed, rushing and scuffling for the comb, which he had under his knees. As she wrestled with him, pulling at his smooth, tight-covered knees, he laughed till he lay back on the sofa shaking with laughter. The cigarette fell from his mouth almost singeing his throat. Under his delicate tan the blood flushed up, and he laughed till his blue eyes were blinded, his throat swollen almost to choking. Then he sat up. Beatrice was putting in her comb.

      “Tha tickled me, Beat,” he said thickly.

      Like a flash her small white hand went out and smacked his face. He started up, glaring at her. They stared at each other. Slowly the flush mounted her cheek, she dropped her eyes, then her head. He sat down sulkily. She went into the scullery to adjust her hair. In private there she shed a few tears, she did not know what for.

      When she returned she was pursed up close. But it was only a film over her fire. He, with ruffled hair, was sulking upon the sofa. She sat down opposite, in the armchair, and neither spoke. The clock ticked in the silence like blows.

      “You are a little cat, Beat,” he said at length, half apologetically.

      “Well, you shouldn't be brazen,” she replied.

      There was again a long silence. He whistled to himself like a man much agitated but defiant. Suddenly she went across to him and kissed him.

      “Did it, pore fing!” she mocked.

      He lifted his face, smiling curiously.

      “Kiss?” he invited her.

      “Daren't I?” she asked.

      “Go on!” he challenged, his mouth lifted to her.

      Deliberately, and with a peculiar quivering smile that seemed to overspread her whole body, she put her mouth on his. Immediately his arms folded round her. As soon as the long kiss was finished she drew back her head from him, put her delicate fingers on his neck, through the open collar. Then she closed her eyes, giving herself up again in a kiss.

      She acted of her own free will. What she would do she did, and made nobody responsible.

      Paul felt life changing around him. The conditions of youth were gone. Now it was a home of grown-up people. Annie was a married woman, Arthur was following his own pleasure in a way unknown to his folk. For so long they had all lived at home, and gone out to pass their time. But now, for Annie and Arthur, life lay outside their mother's house. They came home

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