The two stood together gloating over the dish.
“I love cornflowers on things,” said Paul.
“Yes, and I thought of the teapot you bought me——”
“One and three,” said Paul.
“Fivepence!”
“It’s not enough, mother.”
“No. Do you know, I fairly sneaked off with it. But I’d been extravagant, I couldn’t afford any more, And he needn’t have let me have it if he hadn’t wanted to.”
“No, he needn’t, need he,” said Paul, and the two comforted each other from the fear of having robbed the pot man.
“We c’n have stewed fruit in it,” said Paul.
“Or custard, or a jelly,” said his mother.
“Or radishes and lettuce,” said he.
“Don’t forget that bread,” she said, her voice bright with glee.
Paul looked in the oven; tapped the loaf on the base.
“It’s done,” he said, giving it to her.
She tapped it also.
“Yes,” she replied, going to unpack her bag. “Oh, and I’m a wicked, extravagant woman. I know I s’ll come to want.”
He hopped to her side eagerly, to see her latest extravagance. She unfolded another lump of newspaper and disclosed some roots of pansies and of crimson daisies.
“Four penn’orth!” she moaned.
“How cheap!” he cried.
“Yes, but couldn’t afford it this week of all weeks.”
“But lovely!” he cried.
“Aren’t they!” she exclaimed, giving way to pure joy.
“Paul, look at this yellow one, isn’t it—and a face just like an old man!”
“Just!” cried Paul, stooping to sniff. “And smells that nice! But he’s a bit splashed.”
He ran in the scullery, came back with the flannel, and carefully washed the pansy.
“Now look at him now he’s wet!” he said.
“Yes!” she exclaimed, brimful of satisfaction.
The children of Scargill Street felt quite select. At the end where the Morels lived there were not many young things. So the few were more united. Boys and girls played together, the girls joining in the lights and the rough games, the boys
