Page 497 - sons-and-lovers

‘Do you like the chrysanthemums?’ he asked.
‘Yes; they are very fine,’ replied Miriam.
‘Which sort do you like best?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know. The bronze, I think.’
‘I don’t think you’ve seen all the sorts. Come and look.
Come and see which are YOUR favourites, Clara.’
He led the two women back to his own garden, where the
towsled bushes of flowers of all colours stood raggedly along
the path down to the field. The situation did not embarrass
him, to his knowledge.
‘Look, Miriam; these are the white ones that came from
your garden. They aren’t so fine here, are they?’
‘No,’ said Miriam.
‘But they’re hardier. You’re so sheltered; things grow big
and tender, and then die. These little yellow ones I like. Will
you have some?’
While they were out there the bells began to ring in the
church, sounding loud across the town and the field. Miri-
am looked at the tower, proud among the clustering roofs,
and remembered the sketches he had brought her. It had
been different then, but he had not left her even yet. She
asked him for a book to read. He ran indoors.
‘What! is that Miriam?’ asked his mother coldly.
‘Yes; she said she’d call and see Clara.’
‘You told her, then?’ came the sarcastic answer.
‘Yes; why shouldn’t I?’
‘There’s certainly no reason why you shouldn’t,’ said
Mrs. Morel, and she returned to her book. He winced from
his mother’s irony, frowned irritably, thinking: ‘Why can’t

Sons and Lovers