That nourished her heart. So did “Fair Ines.” And—
“It was a beauteous evening, calm and pure,
And breathing holy quiet like a nun.”
These were like herself. And there was he, saying in his throat bitterly:
“Tu te rappeleras la beaûté des caresses.”
The poem was finished; he took the bread out of the oven, arranging the burnt loaves at the bottom of the panchion, the good ones at the top. The desiccated loaf remained swathed up in the scullery.
“Mater needn’t know till morning,” he said. “It won’t upset her so much then as at night.”
Miriam looked in the bookcase, saw what postcards and letters he had received, saw what books were there. She took one that had interested him. Then he turned down the gas, and they set off. He did not trouble to lock the door.
He was not home again until a quarter to eleven. His mother was seated in the rocking-chair. Annie, with a rope of hair hanging down her back, remained sitting on a low stool before the fire, her elbows on her knees, gloomily. On the table stood the offending loaf unswathed. Paul entered rather breathless. No one spoke. His mother was reading the little local newspaper. He took off his coat, and went to sit down on the sofa. His mother moved curtly aside to let him pass. No one spoke. He was very uncomfortable. For some minutes he sat pretending to read a piece of paper he found on the table. Then—
“I forgot that bread, mother,” he said.
There was no answer from either woman.
“Well,” he said, “it’s only twopence ha’penny. I can pay you for that.”
Being angry he put three pennies on the table, and slid them towards his mother. She turned away her head. Her mouth was shut tightly.
“Yes,” said Annie, “you don’t know how badly my mother is!”
The girl sat staring glumly into the fire.
“Why is she badly?” asked Paul, in his overbearing way.
“Well!” said Annie. “She could scarcely get home.”
He looked closely at his mother. She looked ill.
“Why could you scarcely get home?” he asked her, still sharply. She would not answer.
