hemums in the
sunshine, down to the sycamore-tree, and the field, and beyond one
looked over a few red-roofed cottages to the hills with all the glow of
the autumn afternoon.

Mrs. Morel sat in her rocking-chair, wearing her black silk blouse.
Her grey-brown hair was taken smooth back from her brow and her high
temples; her face was rather pale. Clara, suffering, followed Paul into
the kitchen. Mrs. Morel rose. Clara thought her a lady, even rather
stiff. The young woman was very nervous. She had almost a wistful look,
almost resigned.

"Mother--Clara," said Paul.

Mrs. Morel held out her hand and smiled.

"He has told me a good deal about you," she said.

The blood flamed in Clara's cheek.

"I hope you don't mind my coming," she faltered.

"I was pleased when he said he would bring you," replied Mrs. Morel.

Paul, watching, felt his heart contract with pain. His mother looked so
small, and sallow, and done-for beside the luxuriant Clara.

"It's such a pretty day, mother!" he said. "And we saw a jay."

His mother looked at him; he had turned to her. She thought what a
man he seemed, in his dark, well-made clothes. He was pale and
detached-looking; it would be hard for any woman to keep him. Her heart
glowed; then she was sorry for Clara.

"Perhaps you'll leave your things in the parlour," said Mrs. Morel
nicely to the young woman.

"Oh, thank you," she replied.

"Come on," said Paul, and he led the way into the little front room,
with its old piano, its mahogany furniture, its yellowing marble
mantelpiece. A fire was burning; the place was littered with books and
drawing-boards. "I leave my things lying about," he said. "It's so much
easier."

She loved his artist's paraphernalia, and the books, and the photos of
people. Soon he was telling her: this was William, this was William's
young lady in the evening dress, this was Annie and her husband, this
was Arthur and his wife and the baby. She felt as if she were being
taken into the family. He showed her photos, books, sketches, and they
talked a little while. Then they returned to the kitchen. Mrs. Morel put
aside her book. Clara wore a blouse of fine silk chiffon, with narrow
black-and-white stripes; her hair was done simply, coiled on top of her
head. She looked rather stately and reserved.

"You have gone to live down Sneinton Boulevard?" said Mrs. Morel. "When
I was a girl--girl, I say!--when I was a young woman WE lived in Minerva
Terrace."

"