“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 read. He knew his mother wanted to upbraid him. He also wanted to know what had made her ill, for he was troubled. So, instead of running away to
