"You had a nasty walk, didn't you, Miriam?" said Annie.
"Yes—but I'd been in all week——"
"And you wanted a bit of a change, like," insinuated Leonard kindly.
"Well, you can't be stuck in the house forever," Annie agreed. She was quite amiable. Beatrice pulled on her coat, and went out with Leonard and Annie. She would meet her own boy.
"Don't forget that bread, our Paul," cried Annie. "Good-night, Miriam. I don't think it will rain."
When they had all gone, Paul fetched the swathed loaf, unwrapped it, and surveyed it sadly.
"It's a mess!" he said.
"But," answered Miriam impatiently, "what is it, after all—twopence ha'penny."
"Yes, but—but it's the mater's precious baking, and she'll take it to heart. However, it's no good bothering."
He took the loaf back into the scullery. There was a little distance between him and Miriam. He stood balanced opposite her for some moments considering, thinking of his behaviour with Beatrice. He felt guilty inside himself, and yet glad. For some inscrutable reason it served Miriam right. He was not going to repent. She wondered what he was thinking of as he stood suspended. His thick hair was tumbled over his forehead. Why might she not push it back for him, and remove the marks of Beatrice's comb? Why might she not press his body with her two hands? It looked so firm, and every whit living. And he would let other girls, why not her?