r own house,
his and hers. Then she came back and peered over his work.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Still design, for decorating stuffs, and for embroidery."

She bent short-sightedly over the drawings.

It irritated him that she peered so into everything that was his,
searching him out. He went into the parlour and returned with a bundle
of brownish linen. Carefully unfolding it, he spread it on the floor. It
proved to be a curtain or portiere, beautifully stencilled with a design
on roses.

"Ah, how beautiful!" she cried.

The spread cloth, with its wonderful reddish roses and dark green stems,
all so simple, and somehow so wicked-looking, lay at her feet. She went
on her knees before it, her dark curls dropping. He saw her crouched
voluptuously before his work, and his heart beat quickly. Suddenly she
looked up at him.

"Why does it seem cruel?" she asked.

"What?"

"There seems a feeling of cruelty about it," she said.

"It's jolly good, whether or not," he replied, folding up his work with
a lover's hands.

She rose slowly, pondering.

"And what will you do with it?" she asked.

"Send it to Liberty's. I did it for my mother, but I think she'd rather
have the money."

"Yes," said Miriam. He had spoken with a touch of bitterness, and Miriam
sympathised. Money would have been nothing to HER.

He took the cloth back into the parlour. When he returned he threw to
Miriam a smaller piece. It was a cushion-cover with the same design.

"I did that for you," he said.

She fingered the work with trembling hands, and did not speak. He became
embarrassed.

"By Jove, the bread!" he cried.

He took the top loaves out, tapped them vigorously. They were done. He
put them on the hearth to cool. Then he went to the scullery, wetted his
hands, scooped the last white dough out of the punchion, and dropped it
in a baking-tin. Miriam was still bent over her painted cloth. He stood
rubbing the bits of dough from his hands.

"You do like it?" he asked.

She looked up at him, with her dark eyes one flame of love. He laughed
uncomfortably. Then he began to talk about the design. There was for him
the most intense pleasure in talking about his work to Miriam. All his
passion, all his wild blood, went into this intercourse with her,
when he talked and conceived his work. She brought forth to him his
imaginations. She did not understand, any more than a woman understands
when she conceives a child in her womb. But t