on hand," said Leonard.

"You had a nasty walk, didn't you, Miriam?" said Annie.

"Yes--but I'd been in all week--"

"And you wanted a bit of a change, like," insinuated Leonard kindly.

"Well, you can't be stuck in the house for ever," Annie agreed. She was
quite amiable. Beatrice pulled on her coat, and went out with Leonard
and Annie. She would meet her own boy.

"Don't forget that bread, our Paul," cried Annie. "Good-night, Miriam. I
don't think it will rain."

When they had all gone, Paul fetched the swathed loaf, unwrapped it, and
surveyed it sadly.

"It's a mess!" he said.

"But," answered Miriam impatiently, "what is it, after all--twopence,
ha'penny."

"Yes, but--it's the mater's precious baking, and she'll take it to
heart. However, it's no good bothering."

He took the loaf back into the scullery. There was a little distance
between him and Miriam. He stood balanced opposite her for some moments
considering, thinking of his behaviour with Beatrice. He felt guilty
inside himself, and yet glad. For some inscrutable reason it served
Miriam right. He was not going to repent. She wondered what he was
thinking of as he stood suspended. His thick hair was tumbled over his
forehead. Why might she not push it back for him, and remove the marks
of Beatrice's comb? Why might she not press his body with her two hands.
It looked so firm, and every whit living. And he would let other girls,
why not her?

Suddenly he started into life. It made her quiver almost with terror as
he quickly pushed the hair off his forehead and came towards her.

"Half-past eight!" he said. "We'd better buck up. Where's your French?"

Miriam shyly and rather bitterly produced her exercise-book. Every week
she wrote for him a sort of diary of her inner life, in her own French.
He had found this was the only way to get her to do compositions. And
her diary was mostly a love-letter. He would read it now; she felt as
if her soul's history were going to be desecrated by him in his present
mood. He sat beside her. She watched his hand, firm and warm, rigorously
scoring her work. He was reading only the French, ignoring her soul that
was there. But gradually his hand forgot its work. He read in silence,
motionless. She quivered.

"'_Ce matin les oiseaux m'ont eveille,'" he read. "'Il faisait encore un
crepuscule. Mais la petite fenetre de ma chambre etait bleme, et puis,
jaune, et tous les oiseaux du bois eclaterent dans un chanson vif