David Herbert Lawrence

these days."

Clara suffered badly from her mother. Paul felt as if his eyes were

coming very wide open. Wasn't he to take Clara's fulminations so

seriously, after all? She spun steadily at her work. He experienced a

thrill of joy, thinking she might need his help. She seemed denied and

deprived of so much. And her arm moved mechanically, that should never

have been subdued to a mechanism, and her head was bowed to the lace,

that never should have been bowed. She seemed to be stranded there

among the refuse that life has thrown away, doing her jennying. It was

a bitter thing to her to be put aside by life, as if it had no use for

her. No wonder she protested.

She came with him to the door. He stood below in the mean street,

looking up at her. So fine she was in her stature and her bearing, she

reminded him of Juno dethroned. As she stood in the doorway, she winced

from the street, from her surroundings.

"And you will go with Mrs. Hodgkisson to Hucknall?"

He was talking quite meaninglessly, only watching her. Her grey eyes at

last met his. They looked dumb with humiliation, pleading with a kind of

captive misery. He was shaken and at a loss. He had thought her high and

mighty.

When he left her, he wanted to run. He went to the station in a sort of

dream, and was at home without realising he had moved out of her street.

He had an idea that Susan, the overseer of the Spiral girls, was about

to be married. He asked her the next day.

"I say, Susan, I heard a whisper of your getting married. What about

it?"

Susan flushed red.

"Who's been talking to you?" she replied.

"Nobody. I merely heard a whisper that you WERE thinking--"

"Well, I am, though you needn't tell anybody. What's more, I wish I

wasn't!"

"Nay, Susan, you won't make me believe that."

"Shan't I? You CAN believe it, though. I'd rather stop here a thousand

times."

Paul was perturbed.

"Why, Susan?"

The girl's colour was high, and her eyes flashed.

"That's why!"

"And must you?"

For answer, she looked at him. There was about him a candour and

gentleness which made the women trust him. He understood.

"Ah, I'm sorry," he said.

Tears came to her eyes.

"But you'll see it'll turn out all right. You'll make the best of it,"

he continued rather wistfully.

"There's nothing else for it."

"Yea, there's making the worst of it. Try and make it all right."

He soon made occasion to call again on Clara.

"Would you," he said, "care to come back to Jordan's?"

She put down her work, laid her beautiful arms on the table, and looked

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