Sons and Lovers

“Oh, him in a bob-tailed evening suit,^fs on the lardy-da!”^ft sneered Dawes, jerking his head contemptuously at Paul.

“That’s comin’ it strong,” said the mutual friend. “Tart^fu an’ all?”

“Tart, begod!” said Dawes.

“Go on; let’s have it!” cried the mutual friend.

“You’ve got it,” said Dawes, “an’ I reckon Morelly had it^fv an’ all.”

“Well, I’ll be jiggered!” said the mutual friend. “An’ was it a proper tart?”

“Tart, God blimey^fw-yes!”

“How do you know?”

“Oh,” said Dawes, “I reckon he spent th’ night—”

There was a good deal of laughter at Paul’s expense.

“But who was she? D’you know her?” asked the mutual friend.

“I should shay sho,” said Dawes.

This brought another burst of laughter.

“Then spit it out,” said the mutual friend.

Dawes shook his head, and took a gulp of beer.

“It’s a wonder he hasn’t let on himself,” he said. “He’ll be braggin’ of it in a bit.”

“Come on, Paul,” said the friend; “it’s no good. You might just as well own up.”

“Own up what? That I happened to take a friend to the theatre?”

“Oh well, if it was all right, tell us who she was, lad,” said the friend.

“She was all right,” said Dawes.

Paul was furious. Dawes wiped his golden moustache with his fingers, sneering.

“Strike me—! One o’ that sort?” said the mutual friend. “Paul, boy, I’m surprised at you. And do you know her, Baxter?”

“Just a bit, like!”

He winked at the other men.

“Oh well,” said Paul, “I’ll be going!”

The mutual friend laid a detaining hand on his shoulder.

“Nay,” he said, “you don’t get off as easy as that, my lad. We’ve got to have a full account of this business.”

“Then get it from Dawes!” he said.

“You shouldn’t funk your own deeds, man,” remonstrated the friend.

Then Dawes made a remark which caused Paul to throw half a glass of beer in his face.

“Oh, Mr. Morel!” cried the barmaid, and she rang the bell for the “chucker-out.”

Dawes spat and rushed for the young man. At that minute a brawny fellow with his shirt-sleeves rolled up and his trousers tight over his haunches intervened.

“Now, then!” he said, pushing his chest in front of Dawes.

“Come out!” cried Dawes.

Paul was leaning, white and quivering, against the brass rail of the bar. He hated Dawes, wished something could exterminate him at that minute; and at the same time, seeing the wet hair on the man’s forehead, he thought he looked pathetic. He did not move.

“Come out, you—,” said Dawes.

“That’s enough, Dawes,” cried the barmaid.

“Come on,” said the “chucker-out,” with kindly insistence, “you’d better be getting on.”

And, by making Dawes edge away from his own close proximity, he worked him to the door.

“That’s the little sod as started it!” cried Dawes, half-cowed, pointing to Paul Morel.

“Why, what a story, Mr. Dawes!” said the barmaid. “You know it was you all the time.”

Still the “chucker-out” kept thrusting his chest forward at him, still he kept edging back, until he was in the doorway and on the steps outside; then he turned round.

“All right,” he said, nodding straight at his rival.

Paul had a curious sensation of pity, almost of affection, mingled with violent hate, for the man. The coloured door swung to; there was silence in the bar.

“Serve him jolly well right!” said the barmaid.