the same curious criticism, glancing away before he met the
smith's eye. It made Dawes furious. They hated each other in silence.

Clara Dawes had no children. When she had left her husband the home had
been broken up, and she had gone to live with her mother. Dawes lodged
with his sister. In the same house was a sister-in-law, and somehow Paul
knew that this girl, Louie Travers, was now Dawes's woman. She was a
handsome, insolent hussy, who mocked at the youth, and yet flushed if he
walked along to the station with her as she went home.

The next time he went to see Miriam it was Saturday evening. She had
a fire in the parlour, and was waiting for him. The others, except her
father and mother and the young children, had gone out, so the two had
the parlour together. It was a long, low, warm room. There were three of
Paul's small sketches on the wall, and his photo was on the mantelpiece.
On the table and on the high old rosewood piano were bowls of coloured
leaves. He sat in the armchair, she crouched on the hearthrug near his
feet. The glow was warm on her handsome, pensive face as she kneeled
there like a devotee.

"What did you think of Mrs. Dawes?" she asked quietly.

"She doesn't look very amiable," he replied.

"No, but don't you think she's a fine woman?" she said, in a deep tone,

"Yes--in stature. But without a grain of taste. I like her for some
things. IS she disagreeable?"

"I don't think so. I think she's dissatisfied."

"What with?"

"Well--how would you like to be tied for life to a man like that?"

"Why did she marry him, then, if she was to have revulsions so soon?"

"Ay, why did she!" repeated Miriam bitterly.

"And I should have thought she had enough fight in her to match him," he
said.

Miriam bowed her head.

"Ay?" she queried satirically. "What makes you think so?"

"Look at her mouth--made for passion--and the very setback of her
throat--" He threw his head back in Clara's defiant manner.

Miriam bowed a little lower.

"Yes," she said.

There was a silence for some moments, while he thought of Clara.

"And what were the things you liked about her?" she asked.

"I don't know--her skin and the texture of her--and her--I don't
know--there's a sort of fierceness somewhere in her. I appreciate her as
an artist, that's all."

"Yes."

He wondered why Miriam crouched there brooding in that strange way. It
irritated him.

"You don't really like her, do you?" he asked the girl