clothes. He was pale and detached-looking; it would be hard for any woman to keep him. Her heart glowed; then she was sorry for Clara.
“Perhaps you’ll leave your things in the parlour,” said Mrs. Morel nicely to the young woman.
“Oh, thank you,” she replied.
“Come on,” said Paul, and he led the way into the little front-room, with its old piano, its mahogany furniture, its yellowing marble mantelpiece. A fire was burning; the place was littered with books and drawing-boards. “I leave my things lying about,” he said. “It’s so much easier.”
She loved his artist’s paraphernalia, and the books, and the photos of people. Soon he was telling her: this was William, this was William’s young lady in the evening dress, this was Annie and her husband, this was Arthur and his wife and the baby. She felt as if she were being taken into the family. He showed her photos, books, sketches, and they talked a little while. Then they returned to the kitchen. Mrs. Morel put aside her book. Clara wore a blouse of fine silk chiffon, with narrow black-and-white stripes; her hair was done simply, coiled on top of her head. She looked rather stately and reserved.
“You have gone to live down Sneinton Boulevard?” said Mrs. Morel. “When I was a girl—girl, I say!—when I was a young woman we lived in Minerva Terrace.”
“Oh, did you!” said Clara. “I have a friend in Number 6.”
And the conversation had started. They talked Nottingham and Nottingham people; it interested them both. Clara was still rather nervous; Mrs. Morel was still somewhat on her dignity. She clipped her language very clear and precise. But they were going to get on well together, Paul saw.
Mrs. Morel measured herself against the younger woman, and found herself easily stronger. Clara was deferential. She knew Paul’s surprising regard for his mother, and she had dreaded the meeting, expecting someone rather hard and cold. She was surprised to find this little interested woman chatting with such readiness; and then she felt, as she felt with Paul, that she would not care to stand in Mrs. Morel’s way. There was something so hard and certain in his mother, as if she never had a misgiving in her life.
Presently Morel came down, ruffled and yawning, from his afternoon sleep. He scratched his grizzled head, he podded in his stocking feet, his waistcoat hung open over his shirt. He seemed incongruous.
