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"Good-night, Miriam. I
don't think it will rain."
When they had all gone, Paul fetched the swathed loaf, unwrapped it, and
surveyed it sadly.
"It's a mess!" he said.
"But," answered Miriam impatiently, "what is it, after all--twopence,
ha'penny."
"Yes, but--it's the mater's precious baking, and she'll take it to
heart. However, it's no good bothering."
He took the loaf back into the scullery. There was a little distance
between him and Miriam. He stood balanced opposite her for some moments
considering, thinking of his behaviour with Beatrice. He felt guilty
inside himself, and yet glad. For some inscrutable reason it served
Miriam right. He was not going to repent. She wondered what he was
thinking of as he stood suspended. His thick hair was tumbled over his
forehead. Why might she not push it back for him, and remove the marks
of Beatrice's comb? Why might she not press his body with her two hands.
It looked so firm, and every whit living. And he would let other girls,
why not her?
Suddenly he started into life.


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