`It's all very well, my boy. But, then, why don't you go and talk to your father's pals?'

`But they're rather different.'

`Not at all. They're the common people. After all, whom do you mix with now--among the common people? Those that exchange ideas, like the middle classes. The rest don't interest you.'

`But--there's the life--'

`I don't believe there's a jot more life from Miriam than you could get from any educated girl--say Miss Moreton. It is you who are snobbish about class.'

She frankly wanted him to climb into the middle classes, a thing not very difficult, she knew. And she wanted him in the end to marry a lady.

Now she began to combat him in his restless fretting. He still kept up his connection with Miriam, could neither break free nor go the whole length of engagement. And this indecision seemed to bleed him of his energy. Moreover, his mother suspected him of an unrecognized leaning towards Clara, and, since the latter was a married woman, she wished he would fall in love with one of the girls in a better station of life. But he was stupid, and would refuse to love or even to admire a girl much, just because she was his social superior.

`My boy,' said his mother to him, `all your cleverness, your breaking away from old things, and taking life in your own hands, doesn't seem to bring you much happiness.'

`What is happiness!' he cried. `It's nothing to me! How am I to be happy?'

The plump question disturbed her.

`That's for you to judge, my lad. But if you could meet some good woman who would make you happy-- and you began to think of settling your life--when you have the means--so that you could work without all this fretting--it would be much better for you.'

He frowned. His mother caught him on the raw of his wound of Miriam. He pushed the tumbled hair off his forehead, his eyes full of pain and fire.

`You mean easy, mother,' he cried. `That's a woman's whole doctrine for life--ease of soul and physical comfort. And I do despise it.'

`Oh, do you!' replied his mother. `And do you call yours a divine discontent?'

`Yes. I don't care about it's divinity. But damn your happiness! So long as life's full, it doesn't matter whether it's happy or not. I'm afraid your happiness would bore me.'

`You never give it a chance,' she said. Then suddenly all her passion of grief over him broke out. `But it does matter!' she cried. `And you ought to be happy, you ought to try to be happy, to live to be happy. How could I bear to think your life wouldn't be a happy one!'

`Your own's been bad enough, mater, but it hasn't left you so much worse off than the folk who've been happier. I reckon you've done well. And I am the same. Aren't I well enough off?'

`You're not, my son. Battle--battle--and suffer. It's about all you do, as far as I can see.'

`But why not, my dear? I tell you it's the best--'

`It isn't. And one ought to be happy, one ought.'