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"What?"
"There seems a feeling of cruelty about it," she said.
"It's jolly good, whether or not," he replied, folding up his work with
a lover's hands.
She rose slowly, pondering.
"And what will you do with it?" she asked.
"Send it to Liberty's. I did it for my mother, but I think she'd rather
have the money."
"Yes," said Miriam. He had spoken with a touch of bitterness, and Miriam
sympathised. Money would have been nothing to HER.
He took the cloth back into the parlour. When he returned he threw to
Miriam a smaller piece. It was a cushion-cover with the same design.
"I did that for you," he said.
She fingered the work with trembling hands, and did not speak. He became
embarrassed.
"By Jove, the bread!" he cried.
He took the top loaves out, tapped them vigorously. They were done. He
put them on the hearth to cool. Then he went to the scullery, wetted his
hands, scooped the last white dough out of the punchion, and dropped it
in a baking-tin. Miriam was still bent over her painted cloth.


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