Now, on the Saturday morning he said:

`Come on, 'Postle, let's go through my letters, and you can have the birds and flowers.'

Mrs Morel had done her Saturday's work on the Friday, because he was having a last day's holiday. She was making him a rice cake, which he loved, to take with him. He was scarcely conscious that she was so miserable.

He took the first letter off the file. It was mauve-tinted, and had purple and green thistles. William sniffed the page.

`Nice scent! Smell.'

And he thrust the sheet under Paul's nose.

`Um!' said Paul, breathing in. `What d'you call it? Smell, mother.'

His mother ducked her small, fine nose down to the paper.

`I don't want to smell their rubbish,' she said, sniffing.

`This girl's father,' said William, `is as rich as Croesus. He owns property without end. She calls me Lafayette, because I know French. "You will see, I've forgiven you"--I like her forgiving me. "I told mother about you this morning, and she will have much pleasure if you come to tea on Sunday, but she will have to get father's consent also. I sincerely hope he will agree. I will let you know how it transpires. If, however, you--"'

`"Let you know how it" what?' interrupted Mrs Morel.

`"Transpires"--oh yes!'

`"Transpires!"' repeated Mrs Morel mockingly. `I thought she was so well educated!'

William felt slightly uncomfortable, and abandoned this maiden, giving Paul the corner with the thistles. He continued to read extracts from his letters, some of which amused his mother, some of which saddened her and made her anxious for him.

`My lad,' she said, `they're very wise. They know they've only got to flatter your vanity, and you press up to them like a dog that has its head scratched.'

`Well, they can't go on scratching for ever,' he replied. `And when they've done, I trot away.'

`But one day you'll find a string round your neck that you can't pull off,' she answered.

`Not me! I'm equal to any of 'em, mater, they needn't flatter themselves.'

`You flatter yourself,' she said quietly.

Soon there was a heap of twisted black pages, all that remained of the file of scented letters, except that Paul had thirty or forty pretty tickets from the corners of the note-paper--swallows and forget-me- nots and ivy sprays. And William went to London, to start a new life.