worked with a balanced movement, as if nothing would hurry them. He, not knowing, watched her all the time. He saw the arch of her neck from the shoulder, as she bent her head; he saw the coil of dun hair; he watched her moving, gleaming arms.
“I’ve heard a bit about you from Clara,” continued the mother. “You’re in Jordan’s, aren’t you?” She drew her lace unceasing.
“Yes.”
“Ay, well, and I can remember when Thomas Jordan used to ask me for one of my toffies.”
“Did he?” laughed Paul. “And did he get it?”
“Sometimes he did, sometimes he didn’t—which was latterly. For he’s the sort that takes all and gives naught, he is—or used to be.”
“I think he’s very decent,” said Paul.
“Yes; well, I’m glad to hear it.”
Mrs. Radford looked across at him steadily. There was something determined about her that he liked. Her face was falling loose, but her eyes were calm, and there was something strong in her that made it seem she was not old; merely her wrinkles and loose cheeks were an anachronism. She had the strength and sang-froid of a woman in the prime of life. She continued drawing the lace with slow, dignified movements. The big web came up inevitably over her apron; the length of lace fell away at her side. Her arms were finely shapen, but glossy and yellow as old ivory. They had not the peculiar dull gleam that made Clara’s so fascinating to him.
“And you’ve been going with Miriam Leivers?” the mother asked him.
“Well——” he answered.
“Yes, she’s a nice girl,” she continued. “She’s very nice, but she’s a bit too much above this world to suit my fancy.”
“She is a bit like that,” he agreed.
“She’ll never be satisfied till she’s got wings and can fly over everybody’s head, she won’t,” she said.
Clara broke in, and he told her his message. She spoke humbly to him. He had surprised her in her drudgery. To have her humble made him feel as if he were lifting his head in expectation.
“Do you like jennying?” he asked.
“What can a woman do!” she replied bitterly.
“Is it sweated?”
