he asked.

“Yes. I think it would fit you—at least the coat. The trousers would want shortening.”

He went upstairs and put on the coat and vest. Coming down, he looked strange in a flannel collar and a flannel shirt-front, with an evening coat and vest. It was rather large.

“The tailor can make it right,” she said, smoothing her hand over his shoulder. “It’s beautiful stuff I never could find in my heart to let your father wear the trousers, and very glad I am now.”

And as she smoothed her hand over the silk collar she thought of her eldest son. But this son was living enough inside the clothes. She passed her hand down his back to feel him. He was alive and hers. The other was dead.

He went out to dinner several times in his evening suit that had been William’s. Each time his mother’s heart was firm with pride and joy. He was started now. The studs she and the children had bought for William were in his shirt-front; he wore one of William’s dress shirts. But he had an elegant figure. His face was rough, but warm-looking and rather pleasing. He did not look particularly a gentleman, but she thought he looked quite a man.

He told her everything that took place, everything that was said. It was as if she had been there. And he was dying to introduce her to these new friends who had dinner at seven-thirty in the evening.

“Go along with you!” she said. “What do they want to know me for?”

“They do!” he cried indignantly. “If they want to know me—and they say they do—then they want to know you, because you are quite as clever as I am.”

“Go along with you, child!” she laughed.

But she began to spare her hands. They, too, were work-gnarled now. The skin was shiny with so much hot water, the knuckles rather swollen. But she began to be careful to keep them out of soda. She regretted what they had been—so small and exquisite. And when Annie insisted on her having more stylish blouses to suit her age, she submitted. She even went so far as to allow a black velvet bow to be placed on her hair. Then she sniffed in her sarcastic manner, and was sure she looked a sight. But she looked a lady, Paul declared, as much as Mrs. Major Moreton, and far, far nicer. The family was coming on. Only Morel remained unchanged, or rather, lapsed slowly.

Paul and his mother now had long discussions about life. Religion was fading into the background. He had shovelled away all the beliefs that would hamper him, had cleared the ground, and come more or less to the bedrock of belief that one should feel inside oneself for right and wrong, and should have the patience to gradually realise one’s God. Now life interested him more.

“You know,” he said to his mother, “I don’t want to belong to the well-to-do middle class. I like my common people best. I belong to the common people.”

“But if anyone else said so, my son, wouldn’t you be in a tear.fa You know you consider yourself equal to any gentleman.”

“In myself,” he answered, “not in my class or my education or my manners. But in myself I am.”

“Very well, then. Then why talk about the common people?”

“Because—the difference between people isn’t in their class, but in themselves. Only from the middle classes one gets ideas, and from the common people—life itself, warmth. You feel their hates and loves.”

“It’s all very well, my boy. But, then, why don’t you go and talk to your father’s pals?”

“But they’re rather different.”

“Not at all. They’re the common people. After all, whom do you mix with now—among the common people? Those that exchange ideas like the middle classes. The rest don’t interest you.”

“But—there’s the life—”

“I don’t believe there’s a jot more life from Miriam than you could get from any educated girl—say Miss Moreton. It is you who are snobbish about class.”

She frankly wanted him to climb into the middle classes, a thing not very difficult, she knew. And she wanted him in the end to marry a lady.

Now she began to combat him in his restless fretting. He still kept up his connection with Miriam, could neither break free nor go the whole length of engagement. And this indecision seemed to bleed him of his energy. Moreover, his mother suspected him of an unrecognised leaning towards Clara, and, since the latter was a married woman,