. Although she stood a yard away he felt
as if he were in contact with her. Then he could paint no more. He flung
down the brushes, and turned to talk to her.

Sometimes she praised his work; sometimes she was critical and cold.

"You are affected in that piece," she would say; and, as there was an
element of truth in her condemnation, his blood boiled with anger.

Again: "What of this?" he would ask enthusiastically.

"H'm!" She made a small doubtful sound. "It doesn't interest me much."

"Because you don't understand it," he retorted.

"Then why ask me about it?"

"Because I thought you would understand."

She would shrug her shoulders in scorn of his work. She maddened him. He
was furious. Then he abused her, and went into passionate exposition of
his stuff. This amused and stimulated her. But she never owned that she
had been wrong.

During the ten years that she had belonged to the women's movement
she had acquired a fair amount of education, and, having had some of
Miriam's passion to be instructed, had taught herself French, and could
read in that language with a struggle. She considered herself as a woman
apart, and particularly apart, from her class. The girls in the Spiral
department were all of good homes. It was a small, special industry, and
had a certain distinction. There was an air of refinement in both rooms.
But Clara was aloof also from her fellow-workers.

None of these things, however, did she reveal to Paul. She was not the
one to give herself away. There was a sense of mystery about her. She
was so reserved, he felt she had much to reserve. Her history was open
on the surface, but its inner meaning was hidden from everybody. It was
exciting. And then sometimes he caught her looking at him from under
her brows with an almost furtive, sullen scrutiny, which made him move
quickly. Often she met his eyes. But then her own were, as it were,
covered over, revealing nothing. She gave him a little, lenient smile.
She was to him extraordinarily provocative, because of the knowledge she
seemed to possess, and gathered fruit of experience he could not attain.

One day he picked up a copy of _Lettres de mon Moulin_ from her
work-bench.

"You read French, do you?" he cried.

Clara glanced round negligently. She was making an elastic stocking
of heliotrope silk, turning the Spiral machine with slow, balanced
regularity, occasionally bending down to see her work or to adjust the
needles; then her