Page 119 - sons-and-lovers

‘No, he needn’t, need he,’ said Paul, and the two comfort-
ed each other from the fear of having robbed the pot man.
‘We c’n have stewed fruit in it,’ said Paul.
‘Or custard, or a jelly,’ said his mother.
‘Or radishes and lettuce,’ said he.
‘Don’t forget that bread,’ she said, her voice bright with
glee.
Paul looked in the oven; tapped the loaf on the base.
‘It’s done,’ he said, giving it to her.
She tapped it also.
‘Yes,’ she replied, going to unpack her bag. ‘Oh, and I’m a
wicked, extravagant woman. I know I s’ll come to want.’
He hopped to her side eagerly, to see her latest extrav-
agance. She unfolded another lump of newspaper and
disclosed some roots of pansies and of crimson daisies.
‘Four penn’orth!’ she moaned.
‘How CHEAP!’ he cried.
‘Yes, but I couldn’t afford it THIS week of all weeks.’
‘But lovely!’ he cried.
‘Aren’t they!’ she exclaimed, giving way to pure joy. ‘Paul,
look at this yellow one, isn’t it—and a face just like an old
man!’
‘Just!’ cried Paul, stooping to sniff. ‘And smells that nice!
But he’s a bit splashed.’
He ran in the scullery, came back with the flannel, and
carefully washed the pansy.
‘NOW look at him now he’s wet!’ he said.
‘Yes!’ she exclaimed, brimful of satisfaction.
The children of Scargill Street felt quite select. At the end

11 Sons and Lovers