en
was gone. She had forgotten herself in the game. Now he was to humble
her.

"I think you are despicable!" she said.

And again he laughed, in a way that tortured Miriam.

"And I KNEW you couldn't jump that heap," he teased.

She turned her back on him. Yet everybody could see that the only person
she listened to, or was conscious of, was he, and he of her. It pleased
the men to see this battle between them. But Miriam was tortured.

Paul could choose the lesser in place of the higher, she saw. He could
be unfaithful to himself, unfaithful to the real, deep Paul Morel.
There was a danger of his becoming frivolous, of his running after his
satisfaction like any Arthur, or like his father. It made Miriam bitter
to think that he should throw away his soul for this flippant traffic of
triviality with Clara. She walked in bitterness and silence, while the
other two rallied each other, and Paul sported.

And afterwards, he would not own it, but he was rather ashamed of
himself, and prostrated himself before Miriam. Then again he rebelled.

"It's not religious to be religious," he said. "I reckon a crow is
religious when it sails across the sky. But it only does it because it
feels itself carried to where it's going, not because it thinks it is
being eternal."

But Miriam knew that one should be religious in everything, have God,
whatever God might be, present in everything.

"I don't believe God knows such a lot about Himself," he cried. "God
doesn't KNOW things, He IS things. And I'm sure He's not soulful."

And then it seemed to her that Paul was arguing God on to his own side,
because he wanted his own way and his own pleasure. There was a long
battle between him and her. He was utterly unfaithful to her even in her
own presence; then he was ashamed, then repentant; then he hated her,
and went off again. Those were the ever-recurring conditions.

She fretted him to the bottom of his soul. There she remained--sad,
pensive, a worshipper. And he caused her sorrow. Half the time he
grieved for her, half the time he hated her. She was his conscience; and
he felt, somehow, he had got a conscience that was too much for him. He
could not leave her, because in one way she did hold the best of him. He
could not stay with her because she did not take the rest of him, which
was three-quarters. So he chafed himself into rawness over her.

When she was twenty-one he wrote her a letter which could only have been
written t