her dark curls dropping. He saw her crouched voluptuously before his work, and his heart beat quickly. Suddenly she looked up at him.
“Why does it seem cruel?” she asked.
“What?”
“There seems a feeling of cruelty about it,” she said.
“It’s jolly good, whether or not,” he replied, folding up his work with a lover’s hands.
She rose slowly, pondering.
“And what will you do with it?” she asked.
“Send it to Liberty’s. I did it for my mother, but I think she’d rather have the money.”
“Yes,” said Miriam. He had spoken with a touch of bitterness, and Miriam sympathized. Money would have been nothing to her.
He took the cloth back into the parlour. When he returned, he threw to Miriam a smaller piece. It was a cushion-cover with the same design.
“I did that for you,” he said.
She fingered the work with trembling hands, and did not speak. He became embarrassed.
“By Jove, the bread!” he cried.
He took the top loaves out, tapped them vigorously. They were done. He put them on the hearth to cool. Then he went to the scullery, wetted his hands, scooped the last white dough out of the punchion, and dropped it in a baking-tin. Miriam was still bent over her painted cloth. He stood rubbing the bits of dough from his hands.
“You do like it?” he asked.
She looked up at him, with her dark eyes one flame of love. He laughed uncomfortably. Then he began to talk about the design. There was for him the most intense pleasure in talking about his work to Miriam. All his passion, all his wild blood, went into this intercourse with her, when he talked and conceived his work. She brought forth to him his imaginations. She did not understand, any more than a woman understands when she conceives a child in her womb. But this was life for her and for him.
While they were talking, a young woman of about twenty-two, small and pale, hollow-eyed, yet with a relentless look about her, entered the room. She was a friend at the Morels’.
“Take your things off,” said Paul.
“No, I’m not stopping.”
