“I like it very much,” replied Clara.
Then Miriam realized that Clara was accepted as she had never been.
“Have you come down alone?” asked Paul.
“Yes; I went to Agatha’s to tea. We are going to chapel. I only called in for a moment to see Clara.”
“You should have come in here to tea,” he said.
Miriam laughed shortly, and Clara turned impatiently aside.
“Do you like the chrysanthemums?” he asked.
“Yes; they are very fine,” replied Miriam.
“Which sort do you like best?” he asked.
“I don’t know. The bronze, I think.”
“I don’t think you’ve seen all the sorts. Come and look. Come and see which are your favourites, Clara.”
He led the two women back to his own garden, where the towzled bushes of flowers of all colours stood raggedly along the path down to the field. The situation did not embarrass him, to his knowledge.
“Look, Miriam; these are the white ones that came from your garden. They aren’t so fine here, are they?”
“No,” said Miriam.
“But they’re hardier. You’re so sheltered; things grow big and tender, and then die. These little yellow ones I like. Will you have some?”
While they were out there the bells began to ring in the church, sounding loud across the town and the field. Miriam looked at the tower, proud among the clustering roofs, and remembered the sketches he had brought her. It had been different then, but he had not left her even yet. She asked him for a book to read. He ran indoors.
“What! is that Miriam?” asked his mother coldly.
“Yes; she said she’d call and see Clara.”
“You told her, then?” came the sarcastic answer.
“Yes; why shouldn’t I?”
“There’s certainly no reason why you shouldn’t,” said Mrs. Morel, and she returned to her book. He winced from his mother’s irony, frowned irritably, thinking: “Why can’t I do as I like?”
“You’ve not seen Mrs. Morel before?” Miriam was saying to Clara.
“No; but she’s so nice!”
“Yes,” said Miriam, dropping her head; “in some ways she’s very fine.”
