Page 408 - sons-and-lovers

Later on he said to himself:
‘What was I so impudent to Clara for?’ He was rather an-
noyed with himself, at the same time glad. ‘Serve her right;
she stinks with silent pride,’ he said to himself angrily.
In the afternoon he came down. There was a certain
weight on his heart which he wanted to remove. He thought
to do it by offering her chocolates.
‘Have one?’ he said. ‘I bought a handful to sweeten me
up.’
To his great relief, she accepted. He sat on the work-
bench beside her machine, twisting a piece of silk round his
finger. She loved him for his quick, unexpected movements,
like a young animal. His feet swung as he pondered. The
sweets lay strewn on the bench. She bent over her machine,
grinding rhythmically, then stooping to see the stocking
that hung beneath, pulled down by the weight. He watched
the handsome crouching of her back, and the apron-strings
curling on the floor.
‘There is always about you,’ he said, ‘a sort of waiting.
Whatever I see you doing, you’re not really there: you are
waiting—like Penelope when she did her weaving.’ He
could not help a spurt of wickedness. ‘I’ll call you Penelope,’
he said.
‘Would it make any difference?’ she said, carefully re-
moving one of her needles.
‘That doesn’t matter, so long as it pleases me. Here, I say,
you seem to forget I’m your boss. It just occurs to me.’
‘And what does that mean?’ she asked coolly.
‘It means I’ve got a right to boss you.’

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