Page 312 - sons-and-lovers

were done. He put them on the hearth to cool. Then he went
to the scullery, wetted his hands, scooped the last white
dough out of the punchion, and dropped it in a baking-tin.
Miriam was still bent over her painted cloth. He stood rub-
bing the bits of dough from his hands.
‘You do like it?’ he asked.
She looked up at him, with her dark eyes one flame of
love. He laughed uncomfortably. Then he began to talk
about the design. There was for him the most intense plea-
sure in talking about his work to Miriam. All his passion,
all his wild blood, went into this intercourse with her, when
he talked and conceived his work. She brought forth to him
his imaginations. She did not understand, any more than
a woman understands when she conceives a child in her
womb. But this was life for her and for him.
While they were talking, a young woman of about twen-
ty-two, small and pale, hollow-eyed, yet with a relentless
look about her, entered the room. She was a friend at the
Morel’s.
‘Take your things off,’ said Paul.
‘No, I’m not stopping.’
She sat down in the armchair opposite Paul and Miriam,
who were on the sofa. Miriam moved a little farther from
him. The room was hot, with a scent of new bread. Brown,
crisp loaves stood on the hearth.
‘I shouldn’t have expected to see you here to-night, Mir-
iam Leivers,’ said Beatrice wickedly.
‘Why not?’ murmured Miriam huskily.
‘Why, let’s look at your shoes.’

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