was being quite faithful to her. It was
not easy to estimate exactly the strength and warmth of one's feelings
for a woman till they have run away with one.

He began to give more time to his men friends. There was Jessop, at the
art school; Swain, who was chemistry demonstrator at the university;
Newton, who was a teacher; besides Edgar and Miriam's younger brothers.
Pleading work, he sketched and studied with Jessop. He called in the
university for Swain, and the two went "down town" together. Having come
home in the train with Newton, he called and had a game of billiards
with him in the Moon and Stars. If he gave to Miriam the excuse of his
men friends, he felt quite justified. His mother began to be relieved.
He always told her where he had been.

During the summer Clara wore sometimes a dress of soft cotton stuff with
loose sleeves. When she lifted her hands, her sleeves fell back, and her
beautiful strong arms shone out.

"Half a minute," he cried. "Hold your arm still."

He made sketches of her hand and arm, and the drawings contained some
of the fascination the real thing had for him. Miriam, who always went
scrupulously through his books and papers, saw the drawings.

"I think Clara has such beautiful arms," he said.

"Yes! When did you draw them?"

"On Tuesday, in the work-room. You know, I've got a corner where I can
work. Often I can do every single thing they need in the department,
before dinner. Then I work for myself in the afternoon, and just see to
things at night."

"Yes," she said, turning the leaves of his sketch-book.

Frequently he hated Miriam. He hated her as she bent forward and pored
over his things. He hated her way of patiently casting him up, as if he
were an endless psychological account. When he was with her, he hated
her for having got him, and yet not got him, and he tortured her. She
took all and gave nothing, he said. At least, she gave no living warmth.
She was never alive, and giving off life. Looking for her was like
looking for something which did not exist. She was only his conscience,
not his mate. He hated her violently, and was more cruel to her. They
dragged on till the next summer. He saw more and more of Clara.

At last he spoke. He had been sitting working at home one evening. There
was between him and his mother a peculiar condition of people frankly
finding fault with each other. Mrs. Morel was strong on her feet again.
He was not going to stick to Miriam. Ve