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They hurried back to work.
When he was in the rush of preparing for the night's post, examining the
work up from Fanny's room, which smelt of ironing, the evening postman
came in.
"'Mr. Paul Morel,'" he said, smiling, handing Paul a package. "A lady's
handwriting! Don't let the girls see it."
The postman, himself a favourite, was pleased to make fun of the girls'
affection for Paul.
It was a volume of verse with a brief note: "You will allow me to send
you this, and so spare me my isolation. I also sympathise and wish you
well.--C.D." Paul flushed hot.
"Good Lord! Mrs. Dawes. She can't afford it. Good Lord, who ever'd have
thought it!"
He was suddenly intensely moved. He was filled with the warmth of her.
In the glow he could almost feel her as if she were present--her arms,
her shoulders, her bosom, see them, feel them, almost contain them.
This move on the part of Clara brought them into closer intimacy. The
other girls noticed that when Paul met Mrs. Dawes his eyes lifted and
gave that peculiar bright greeting which they could interpret.


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