Leonard had followed Annie. He had a long comic face and blue eyes, very sad.
“I suppose he’s left you to settle it between you,” he said. He nodded sympathetically to Miriam, and became gently sarcastic to Beatrice.
“No,” said Beatrice, “he’s gone off with number nine.”
“I just met number five inquiring for him,” said Leonard.
“Yes—we’re going to share him up like Solomon’s baby,” said Beatrice.
Annie laughed.
“Oh, ay,” said Leonard. “And which bit should you have?”
“I don’t know,” said Beatrice. “I’ll let all the others pick first.”
“An’ you’d have the leavings, like?’ said Leonard, twisting up a comic face.
Annie was looking in the oven. Miriam sat ignored. Paul entered.
“This bread’s a fine sight, our Paul,” said Annie.
“Then you should stop an’ look after it,” said Paul,
“You mean you should do what you’re reckoning to do,’ replied Annie.
“He should, shouldn’t he!” cried Beatrice.
“I s’d think he’d got plenty on hand,” said Leonard.
“You had a nasty walk, didn’t you, Miriam?” said Annie.
“Yes—but I’d been in all week——”
“And you wanted a bit of a change, like,” insinuated Leonard kindly.
“Well, you can’t be stuck in the house for ever,” Annie agreed. She was quite amiable. Beatrice pulled on her coat, and went out with Leonard and Annie. She would meet her own boy.
“Don’t forget that bread, our Paul,” cried Annie. “Good night, Miriam. I don’t think it will rain.”
When they had all gone, Paul fetched the swathed loaf, unwrapped it, and surveyed it sadly.
“It’s a mess!” he said.
“But,” answered Miriam impatiently, “what is it, after all—twopence ha’penny.”
“Yes, but it’s the mater’s precious baking, and she’ll take it to heart. However, it’s no good bothering.”
He took the loaf back into the scullery. There was a little distance between him and Miriam. He stood balanced opposite her for some moments considering, thinking of his
