The little man looked at him. He did not know whether "doigts" meant
"fingers"; he knew that for all HIS purposes it meant "toes".
"Fingers to stockings!" he snapped.
"Well, it DOES mean fingers," the boy persisted.
He hated the little man, who made such a clod of him. Mr. Jordan looked
at the pale, stupid, defiant boy, then at the mother, who sat quiet and
with that peculiar shut-off look of the poor who have to depend on the
favour of others.
"And when could he come?" he asked.
"Well," said Mrs. Morel, "as soon as you wish. He has finished school
now."
"He would live in Bestwood?"
"Yes; but he could be in--at the station--at quarter to eight."
"H'm!"
It ended by Paul's being engaged as junior spiral clerk at eight
shillings a week. The boy did not open his mouth to say another word,
after having insisted that "doigts" meant "fingers". He followed his
mother down the stairs. She looked at him with her bright blue eyes full
of love and joy.
"I think you'll like it," she said.
"'Doigts' does mean 'fingers', mother, and it was the writing. I
couldn't read the writing."
"Never mind, my boy. I'm sure he'll be all right, and you won't see much
of him. Wasn't that first young fellow nice? I'm sure you'll like them."
"But wasn't Mr. Jordan common, mother? Does he own it all?"
"I suppose he was a workman who has got on," she said. "You mustn't mind
people so much. They're not being disagreeable to YOU--it's their way.
You always think people are meaning things for you. But they don't."
It was very sunny. Over the big desolate space of the market-place the
blue sky shimmered, and the granite cobbles of the paving glistened.
Shops down the Long Row were deep in obscurity, and the shadow was full
of colour. Just where the horse trams trundled across the market was a
row of fruit stalls, with fruit blazing in the sun--apples and piles of
reddish oranges, small green-gage plums and bananas. There was a warm
scent of fruit as mother and son passed. Gradually his feeling of
ignominy and of rage sank.
"Where should we go for dinner?" asked the mother.
It was felt to be a reckless extravagance. Paul had only been in an
eating-house once or twice in his life, and then only to have a cup of
tea and a bun. Most of the people of Bestwood considered that tea and
bread-and-butter, and perhaps potted beef, was all they could afford to
eat in Nottingham. Real cooked dinner was considered great extravagance.
Paul felt rather guilty.
They found a place that looked quite cheap. But when Mrs. Morel scanned
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