"And have they enough to keep them?"
"I don't think so. I think they do lace work."
"And wherein lies her charm, my boy?"
"I don't know that she's charming, mother. But she's nice. And she seems straight, you know—not a bit deep, not a bit."
"But she's a good deal older than you."
"She's thirty, I'm going of twenty-three."
"You haven't told me what you like her for."
"Because I don't know—a sort of defiant way she's got—a sort of angry way."
Mrs. Morel considered. She would have been glad now for her son to fall in love with some woman who would—she did not know what. But he fretted so, got so furious suddenly, and again was melancholic. She wished he knew some nice woman—She did not know what she wished, but left it vague. At any rate she was not hostile to the idea of Clara.
Annie, too, was getting married. Leonard had gone away to work in Birmingham. One week-end when he was home she had said to him: