`Mr Morel doesn't like it,' said the barmaid. `You'll see, we shan't have him in much more. I'm sorry; he's good company. And Baxter Dawes wants locking up, that's what he wants.'

Paul would have died rather than his mother should get to know of this affair. He suffered tortures of humiliation and self-consciousness. There was now a good deal of his life of which necessarily he could not speak to his mother. He had a life apart from her -- his sexual life. The rest she still kept. But he felt he had to conceal something from her, and it irked him. There was a certain silence between them, and he felt he had, in that silence, to defend himself against her; he felt condemned by her. Then sometimes he hated her, and pulled at her bondage. His life wanted to free itself of her. It was like a circle where life turned back on itself, and got no farther. She bore him, loved him, kept him, and his love turned back into her, so that he could not be free to go forward with his own life, really love another woman. At this period, unknowingly, he resisted his mother's influence. He did not tell her things; there was a distance between them.

Clara was happy, almost sure of him. She felt she had at last got him for herself; and then again came the uncertainty. He told her jestingly of the affair with her husband. Her colour came up, her grey eyes flashed.

`That's him to a "T",' she cried -- `like a navvy! He's not fit for mixing with decent folk.'

`Yet you married him,' he said.

It made her furious that he reminded her.

`I did!' she cried. `But how was I to know!'

`I think he might have been rather nice,' he said.

`You think I made him what he is!' she exclaimed.

`Oh no! he made himself. But there's something about him --'

Clara looked at her lover closely. There was something in him she hated, a sort of detached criticism of herself, a coldness which made her woman's soul harden against him.

`And what are you going to do?' she asked.

`How?'

`About Baxter.'

`There's nothing to do, is there?' he replied.

`You can fight him if you have to, I suppose?' she said.

`No; I haven't the least sense of the "fist". It's funny. With most men there's the instinct to clench the fist and hit. It's not so with me. I should want a knife or a pistol or something to fight with.'

`Then you'd better carry something,' she said.

`Nay,' he laughed; `I'm not daggeroso.'

`But he'll do something to you. You don't know him.'

`All right,' he said, `we'll see.'

`And you'll let him?'