had imagined them made her more
comfortable. She had learned a good deal--almost as much as she wanted
to learn. Her cup had been full. It was still as full as she could
carry. On the whole, she would not be sorry when he was gone.

They had dinner, and sat eating nuts and drinking by the fire. Not
a serious word had been spoken. Yet Clara realised that Morel was
withdrawing from the circle, leaving her the option to stay with her
husband. It angered her. He was a mean fellow, after all, to take what
he wanted and then give her back. She did not remember that she herself
had had what she wanted, and really, at the bottom of her heart, wished
to be given back.

Paul felt crumpled up and lonely. His mother had really supported his
life. He had loved her; they two had, in fact, faced the world together.
Now she was gone, and for ever behind him was the gap in life, the tear
in the veil, through which his life seemed to drift slowly, as if he
were drawn towards death. He wanted someone of their own free initiative
to help him. The lesser things he began to let go from him, for fear of
this big thing, the lapse towards death, following in the wake of his
beloved. Clara could not stand for him to hold on to. She wanted him,
but not to understand him. He felt she wanted the man on top, not the
real him that was in trouble. That would be too much trouble to her; he
dared not give it her. She could not cope with him. It made him ashamed.
So, secretly ashamed because he was in such a mess, because his own hold
on life was so unsure, because nobody held him, feeling unsubstantial,
shadowy, as if he did not count for much in this concrete world, he drew
himself together smaller and smaller. He did not want to die; he would
not give in. But he was not afraid of death. If nobody would help, he
would go on alone.

Dawes had been driven to the extremity of life, until he was afraid. He
could go to the brink of death, he could lie on the edge and look in.
Then, cowed, afraid, he had to crawl back, and like a beggar take what
offered. There was a certain nobility in it. As Clara saw, he owned
himself beaten, and he wanted to be taken back whether or not. That she
could do for him. It was three o'clock.

"I am going by the four-twenty," said Paul again to Clara. "Are you
coming then or later?"

"I don't know," she said.

"I'm meeting my father in Nottingham at seven-fifteen," he said.

"Then," she answered, "I'll come later."