e there, a new self or a new centre of consciousness, warning
him that sooner or later he would have to ask one woman or another. But
he belonged to Miriam. Of that she was so fixedly sure that he allowed
her right.

CHAPTER X

CLARA

WHEN he was twenty-three years old, Paul sent in a landscape to the
winter exhibition at Nottingham Castle. Miss Jordan had taken a good
deal of interest in him, and invited him to her house, where he met
other artists. He was beginning to grow ambitious.

One morning the postman came just as he was washing in the scullery.
Suddenly he heard a wild noise from his mother. Rushing into the
kitchen, he found her standing on the hearthrug wildly waving a
letter and crying "Hurrah!" as if she had gone mad. He was shocked and
frightened.

"Why, mother!" he exclaimed.

She flew to him, flung her arms round him for a moment, then waved the
letter, crying:

"Hurrah, my boy! I knew we should do it!"

He was afraid of her--the small, severe woman with graying hair suddenly
bursting out in such frenzy. The postman came running back, afraid
something had happened. They saw his tipped cap over the short curtains.
Mrs. Morel rushed to the door.

"His picture's got first prize, Fred," she cried, "and is sold for
twenty guineas."

"My word, that's something like!" said the young postman, whom they had
known all his life.

"And Major Moreton has bought it!" she cried.

"It looks like meanin' something, that does, Mrs. Morel," said the
postman, his blue eyes bright. He was glad to have brought such a lucky
letter. Mrs. Morel went indoors and sat down, trembling. Paul was afraid
lest she might have misread the letter, and might be disappointed after
all. He scrutinised it once, twice. Yes, he became convinced it was
true. Then he sat down, his heart beating with joy.

"Mother!" he exclaimed.

"Didn't I SAY we should do it!" she said, pretending she was not crying.

He took the kettle off the fire and mashed the tea.

"You didn't think, mother--" he began tentatively.

"No, my son--not so much--but I expected a good deal."

"But not so much," he said.

"No--no--but I knew we should do it."

And then she recovered her composure, apparently at least. He sat with
his shirt turned back, showing his young throat almost like a girl's,
and the towel in his hand, his hair sticking up wet.

"Twenty guineas, mother! That's just what you wanted to buy Arthur out.
Now you needn't borrow an