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"What's the matter with YOU?" his mother asked sharply.
"Nothing," he replied.
But he ate no dinner.
"If you eat no dinner, you're not going to school," she said.
"Why?" he asked.
"That's why."
So after dinner he lay down on the sofa, on the warm chintz cushions the
children loved. Then he fell into a kind of doze. That afternoon Mrs.
Morel was ironing. She listened to the small, restless noise the boy
made in his throat as she worked. Again rose in her heart the old,
almost weary feeling towards him. She had never expected him to live.
And yet he had a great vitality in his young body. Perhaps it would have
been a little relief to her if he had died. She always felt a mixture of
anguish in her love for him.
He, in his semi-conscious sleep, was vaguely aware of the clatter of the
iron on the iron-stand, of the faint thud, thud on the ironing-board.
Once roused, he opened his eyes to see his mother standing on the
hearthrug with the hot iron near her cheek, listening, as it were, to
the heat.


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