“Aren’t they pretty?”
“Yes.”
He knew she was cross with him. After a few minutes he said:
“Edgar and Miriam are coming to tea to-morrow.”
She did not answer.
“You don’t mind?”
Still she did not answer.
“Do you?” he asked.
“You know whether I mind or not.”
“I don’t see why you should. I have plenty of meals there.”
“You do.”
“Then why do you begrudge them tea?”
“I begrudge whom tea?”
“What are you so horrid for?”
“Oh, say no more! You’ve asked her to tea, it’s quite sufficient. She’ll come.”
He was very angry with his mother. He knew it was merely Miriam she objected to. He flung off his boots and went to bed.
Paul went to meet his friends the next afternoon. He was glad to see them coming. They arrived home at about four o’clock. Everywhere was clean and still for Sunday afternoon. Mrs. Morel sat in her black dress and black apron. She rose to meet the visitors. With Edgar she was cordial, but with Miriam cold and rather grudging. Yet Paul thought the girl looked so nice in her brown cashmere frock.
He helped his mother to get the tea ready. Miriam would have gladly proffered, but was afraid. He was rather proud of his home. There was about it now, he thought, a certain distinction. The chairs were only wooden, and the sofa was old. But the hearthrug and cushions were cosy; the pictures were prints in good taste; there was a simplicity in everything, and plenty of books. He was never ashamed in the least of his home, nor was Miriam of hers, because both were what they should be, and warm. And then he was proud of the table; the china was pretty, the cloth was fine. It did not matter that the spoons were not silver nor the knives ivory-handled; everything looked nice. Mrs. Morel had managed wonderfully while her children were growing up, so that nothing was out of place.
Miriam talked books a little. That was her unfailing topic. But Mrs. Morel was not cordial, and turned soon to Edgar.
At first Edgar and Miriam used to go into Mrs. Morel’s
