still mantled
below her ears; she bent her head in shame of her humility. Her face was
set on her work. Her arms were creamy and full of life beside the white
lace; her large, well-kept hands 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?"

"More or less. Isn't ALL woman's work? That's another trick the men have
played, since we force ourselves into the labour market."

"Now then, you shut up about the men," said her mother. "If the women
wasn't fools, the men woul