it too late?” he asked.

“It is late—but we can read just a little,” she pleaded.

She was really getting now the food for her life during the next week. He made her copy Baudelaire’s “Le Balcon.”11 Then he read it for her. His voice was soft and caressing, but growing almost brutal. He had a way of lifting his lips and showing his teeth, passionately and bitterly, when he was much moved. This he did now. It made Miriam feel as if he were trampling on her. She dared not look at him, but sat with her head bowed. She could not understand why he got into such a tumult and fury. It made her wretched. She did not like Baudelaire, on the whole—nor Verlaine.

“Behold her singing in the field

Yon solitary highland lass.”

That nourished her heart. So did “Fair Ines.” And—

“It was a beauteous evening, calm and pure,

And breathing holy quiet like a nun.”12

These were like herself. And there was he, saying in his throat bitterly:“Tu te rappelleras la beauté des caresses.”13

The poem was finished; he took the bread out of the oven, arranging the burnt loaves at the bottom of the panchion, the good ones at the top. The desiccated loaf remained swathed up in the scullery.

“Mater needn’t know till morning,” he said. “It won’t upset her so much then as at night.”

Miriam looked in the bookcase, saw what postcards and letters he had received, saw what books were there. She took one that had interested him. Then he turned down the gas and they set off He did not trouble to lock the door.

He was not home again until a quarter to eleven. His mother was seated in the rocking-chair. Annie, with a rope of hair hanging down her back, remained sitting on a low stool before the fire, her elbows on her knees, gloomily. On the table stood the offending loaf unswathed. Paul entered rather breathless. No one spoke. His mother was reading the little local newspaper. He took off his coat, and went to sit down on the sofa. His mother moved curtly aside to let him pass. No one spoke. He was very uncomfortable. For some minutes he sat pretending to read a piece of paper he found on the table. Then———

“I forgot that bread, mother,” he said.

There was no answer from either woman.

“Well,” he said, “it’s only twopence ha’penny. I can pay you for that.”

Being angry, he put three pennies on the table and slid them towards his mother. She turned away her head. Her mouth was shut tightly.

“Yes,” said Annie, “you don’t know how badly my mother is!” The girl sat staring glumly into the fire.

“Why is she badly?” asked Paul, in his overbearing way.

“Well!” said Annie. “She could scarcely get home.”

He looked closely at his mother. She looked ill.

“Why could you scarcely get home?” he asked her, still sharply. She would not answer.

“I found her as white as a sheet sitting here,” said Annie, with a suggestion of tears in her voice.

“Well, why?” insisted Paul. His brows were knitting, his eyes dilating passionately.

“It was enough to upset anybody,” said Mrs. Morel, “hugging those parcels—meat, and green-groceries, and a pair of curtains—”

“Well, why did you hug them; you needn’t have done.”

“Then who would?”

“Let Annie fetch the meat.”

“Yes, and I would fetch the meat, but how was I to know. You were off with Miriam, instead of being in when my mother came.”

“And what was the matter with you?” asked Paul of his mother.

“I suppose it’s my heart,” she replied. Certainly she looked bluish round the mouth.

“And have you felt it before?”

“Yes—often enough.”

“Then why haven’t you told me?—and why haven’t you seen a doctor?”

Mrs. Morel shifted in her chair, angry with him for his hectoring.

“You’d never notice anything,” said Annie. “You’re too eager to be off with Miriam.”

“Oh, am I—and any worse than you with Leonard?”

“I was in at a quarter to ten.”

There was silence in the room for a time.

“I should have thought,” said Mrs. Morel bitterly, “that she wouldn’t have occupied you so entirely as to burn a whole ovenful of bread.”

“Beatrice was here as well as she.”

“Very likely. But we know why the bread is spoilt.”

“Why?” he flashed.

“Because you were engrossed with Miriam,” replied Mrs. Morel hotly.

“Oh, very well—then it was not!” he replied angrily.

He was distressed and wretched. Seizing a paper, he began to read. Annie, her blouse unfastened, her long ropes of hair twisted into a plait, went up to bed, bidding him a very curt good-night.

Paul sat pretending to