recovered, and was rather tender to her. Coming to a bridge, he carved her initials and his in a heart.
She watched his strong, nervous hand, with its glistening hairs and freckles, as he carved, and she seemed fascinated by it.
All the time there was a feeling of sadness and warmth, and a certain tenderness in the house, whilst William and Lily were at home. But often he got irritable. She had brought, for an eight-days’ stay, five dresses and six blouses.
“Oh, would you mind,” she said to Annie, “washing me these two blouses, and these things?”
And Annie stood washing when William and Lily went out the next morning. Mrs. Morel was furious. And sometimes the young man, catching a glimpse of his sweetheart’s attitude towards his sister, hated her.
On Sunday morning she looked very beautiful in a dress of foulard, silky and sweeping, and blue as a jay-bird’s feather, and in a large cream hat covered with many roses, mostly crimson. Nobody could admire her enough. But in the evening, when she was going out, she asked again:
“Chubby, have you got my gloves?”
“Which?” asked William.
“My new black suède.”
“No.”
There was a hunt. She had lost them.
“Look here, mother,” said William, “that’s the fourth pair she’s lost since Christmas—at five shillings a pair!”
“You only gave me two of them,” she remonstrated.
And in the evening, after supper, he stood on the hearth-rug whilst she sat on the sofa, and he seemed to hate her. In the afternoon he had left her whilst he went to see some old friend. She had sat looking at a book. After supper William wanted to write a letter.
“Here is your book, Lily,” said Mrs. Morel. “Would you care to go on with it for a few minutes?”
“No, thank you,” said the girl. “I will sit still.”
“But it is so dull.”
William scribbled irritably at a great rate. As he sealed the envelope he said:
