chair as he held out his hand.
“You shouldn’t get up,” said Paul.
Dawes sat down heavily, eyeing Morel with a sort of suspicion.
“Don’t you waste your time on me,” he said, “if you’ve owt better to do.”
“I wanted to come,” said Paul. “Here! I brought you some sweets.”
The invalid put them aside.
“It’s not been much of a week-end,” said Morel.
“How’s your mother?” asked the other.
“Hardly any different.”
“I thought she was perhaps worse, being as you didn’t come on Sunday.”
“I was at Skegness,” said Paul. “I wanted a change.”
The other looked at him with dark eyes. He seemed to be waiting, not quite daring to ask, trusting to be told.
“I went with Clara,” said Paul.
“I knew as much,” said Dawes quietly.
“It was an old promise,” said Paul.
“You have it your own way,” said Dawes.
This was the first time Clara had been definitely mentioned between them.
“Nay,” said Morel slowly; “she’s tired of me.”
Again Dawes looked at him.
“Since August she’s been getting tired of me,” Morel repeated.
The two men were very quiet together. Paul suggested a game of draughts. They played in silence.
“I s’ll go abroad when my mother’s dead,” said Paul.
“Abroad!” repeated Dawes.
“Yes; I don’t care what I do.”
They continued the game. Dawes was winning.
“I s’ll have to begin a new start of some sort,” said Paul; “and you as well, I suppose.”
He took one of Dawes’s pieces.
“I dunno where,” said the other.
“Things have to happen,” Morel said. “It’s no good doing any-thing—at least—no, I don’t know. Give me some toffee.”
The two men ate sweets, and began another game of draughts.
“What made that scar on your mouth?” asked Dawes.
Paul put his hand hastily to his lips, and looked over the garden.
“I had a bicycle accident,” he said.
Dawes’s hand trembled as he moved the piece.
“You shouldn’t ha’ laughed at me,” he said, very low.
“When?”
“That night on Woodborough Road, when you and her passed me—you with your hand on her shoulder.”
“I never laughed at you,” said Paul.
Dawes kept his fingers on the draught-piece.
“I never knew you were there till the very second when you passed,” said Morel.
“It was that as did me,” Dawes said, very low.
Paul took another sweet.
“I never laughed,” he said, “except as I’m always laughing.”
They finished the game.
That night Morel walked home from Nottingham, in order to have something to do. The furnaces flared in a red blotch over Bulwell; the black clouds were like a low ceiling. As he went along the ten miles of highroad, he felt as if he were walking out of life, between the black levels of the sky and the earth. But at the end was only the sick- room. If he walked and walked for ever, there was only that place to come to.
He was not tired when he got near home, or he did not know it. Across the field he could see the red firelight leaping in her bedroom window.
“When she’s dead,” he said to himself, “that fire will go out.”
