"Why, do you know her?" he asked.

She did not answer. He turned to Miriam.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"To the Castle."

"What train are you going home by?"

"I am driving with father. I wish you could come too. What time are you
free?"

"You know not till eight to-night, damn it!"

And directly the two women moved on.

Paul remembered that Clara Dawes was the daughter of an old friend of
Mrs. Leivers. Miriam had sought her out because she had once been Spiral
overseer at Jordan's, and because her husband, Baxter Dawes, was smith
for the factory, making the irons for cripple instruments, and so on.
Through her Miriam felt she got into direct contact with Jordan's, and
could estimate better Paul's position. But Mrs. Dawes was separated from
her husband, and had taken up Women's Rights. She was supposed to be
clever. It interested Paul.

Baxter Dawes he knew and disliked. The smith was a man of thirty-one or
thirty-two. He came occasionally through Paul's corner--a big, well-set
man, also striking to look at, and handsome. There was a peculiar
similarity between himself and his wife. He had the same white skin,
with a clear, golden tinge. His hair was of soft brown, his moustache
was golden. And he had a similar defiance in his bearing and manner. But
then came the difference. His eyes, dark brown and quick-shifting, were
dissolute. They protruded very slightly, and his eyelids hung over them
in a way that was half hate. His mouth, too, was sensual. His whole
manner was of cowed defiance, as if he were ready to knock anybody
down who disapproved of him--perhaps because he really disapproved of
himself.

From the first day he had hated Paul. Finding the lad's impersonal,
deliberate gaze of an artist on his face, he got into a fury.

"What are yer lookin' at?" he sneered, bullying.

The boy glanced away. But the smith used to stand behind the counter
and talk to Mr. Pappleworth. His speech was dirty, with a kind of
rottenness. Again he found the youth with his cool, critical gaze fixed
on his face. The smith started round as if he had been stung.

"What'r yer lookin' at, three hap'orth o' pap?" he snarled.

The boy shrugged his shoulders slightly.

"Why yer--!" shouted Dawes.

"Leave him alone," said Mr. Pappleworth, in that insinuating voice which
means, "He's only one of your good little sops who can't help it."

Since that time the boy used to look at the man every time he came
through with