denly turned to Clara with a laugh, and put his hand on her shoulder, saying, laughing:
“But we walk side by side, and yet I’m in London arguing with an imaginary Orpen; and where are you?”
At that instant Dawes passed, almost touching Morel. The young man glanced, saw the dark brown eyes burning, full of hate and yet tired.
“Who was that?” he asked of Clara.
“It was Baxter,” she replied.
Paul took his hand from her shoulder and glanced round; then he saw again distinctly the man’s form as it approached him. Dawes still walked erect, with his fine shoulders flung back, and his face lifted; but there was a furtive look in his eyes that gave one the impression he was trying to get unnoticed past every person he met, glancing suspiciously to see what they thought of him. And his hands seemed to be wanting to hide. He wore old clothes, the trousers were torn at the knee, and the handkerchief tied round his throat was dirty; but his cap was still defiantly over one eye. As she saw him, Clara felt guilty. There was a tiredness and despair on his face that made her hate him, because it hurt her.
“He looks shady,” said Paul.
But the note of pity in his voice reproached her, and made her feel hard.
“His true commonness comes out,” she answered.
“Do you hate him?” he asked.
“You talk,” she said, “about the cruelty of women; I wish you knew the cruelty of men in their brute force. They simply don’t know that the woman exists.”
“Don’t I?” he said.
“No,” she answered.
“Don’t I know you exist?”
“About me you know nothing,” she said bitterly—“about me!”
“Not more than Baxter knew?” he asked.
“Perhaps not as much.”
He felt puzzled, and helpless, and angry. There she walked, unknown to him, though they had been through such experience together.
“But you know me pretty well,” he said.
She did not answer.
“Did you know Baxter as well as you know me?” he asked
“He wouldn’t let me,” she said.
