Page 505 - sons-and-lovers

‘Did you like her?’ he asked grudgingly at last.
‘Yes, I liked her. But you’ll tire of her, my son; you know
you will.’
He did not answer. She noticed how he laboured in his
breathing.
‘Have you been running?’ she asked.
‘We had to run for the train.’
‘You’ll go and knock yourself up. You’d better drink hot
milk.’
It was as good a stimulant as he could have, but he refused
and went to bed. There he lay face down on the counter-
pane, and shed tears of rage and pain. There was a physical
pain that made him bite his lips till they bled, and the chaos
inside him left him unable to think, almost to feel.
‘This is how she serves me, is it?’ he said in his heart, over
and over, pressing his face in the quilt. And he hated her.
Again he went over the scene, and again he hated her.
The next day there was a new aloofness about him. Clara
was very gentle, almost loving. But he treated her distantly,
with a touch of contempt. She sighed, continuing to be gen-
tle. He came round.
One evening of that week Sarah Bernhardt was at the
Theatre Royal in Nottingham, giving ‘La Dame aux Came-
lias”. Paul wanted to see this old and famous actress, and he
asked Clara to accompany him. He told his mother to leave
the key in the window for him.
‘Shall I book seats?’ he asked of Clara.
‘Yes. And put on an evening suit, will you? I’ve never
seen you in it.’

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