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 realize 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. 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?”
