"Fifteen two, fifteen four, fifteen six, and two's eight--!"
The clock struck one. Still the game continued. Mrs. Radford had done
all the little jobs preparatory to going to bed, had locked the door
and filled the kettle. Still Paul went on dealing and counting. He was
obsessed by Clara's arms and throat. He believed he could see where the
division was just beginning for her breasts. He could not leave her. She
watched his hands, and felt her joints melt as they moved quickly. She
was so near; it was almost as if he touched her, and yet not quite. His
mettle was roused. He hated Mrs. Radford. She sat on, nearly dropping
asleep, but determined and obstinate in her chair. Paul glanced at her,
then at Clara. She met his eyes, that were angry, mocking, and hard as
steel. Her own answered him in shame. He knew SHE, at any rate, was of
his mind. He played on.
At last Mrs. Radford roused herself stiffly, and said:
"Isn't it nigh on time you two was thinking o' bed?"
Paul played on without answering. He hated her sufficiently to murder
her.
"Half a minute," he said.
The elder woman rose and sailed stubbornly into the scullery, returning
with his candle, which she put on the mantelpiece. Then she sat down
again. The hatred of her went so hot down his veins, he dropped his
cards.
"We'll stop, then," he said, but his voice was still a challenge.
Clara saw his mouth shut hard. Again he glanced at her. It seemed like
an agreement. She bent over the cards, coughing, to clear her throat.
"Well, I'm glad you've finished," said Mrs. Radford. "Here, take your
things"--she thrust the warm suit in his hand--"and this is your candle.
Your room's over this; there's only two, so you can't go far wrong.
Well, good-night. I hope you'll rest well."
"I'm sure I shall; I always do," he said.
"Yes; and so you ought at your age," she replied.
He bade good-night to Clara, and went. The twisting stairs of white,
scrubbed wood creaked and clanged at every step. He went doggedly. The
two doors faced each other. He went in his room, pushed the door to,
without fastening the latch.
It was a small room with a large bed. Some of Clara's hair-pins were
on the dressing-table--her hair-brush. Her clothes and some skirts hung
under a cloth in a corner. There was actually a pair of stockings over
a chair. He explored the room. Two books of his own were there on the
shelf. He undressed, folded his suit, and sat on the bed, listening.
Then he blew out the candle, lay down, and in two minutes was almost
asleep. Then click!--he was wide awake and writhing in torment. It
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