“It’s queer, Tom ... now, thur’s summat I want to know. Tell me—is a wife better than a mother?” “Better—but different. Doan’t you fear, mother. I’ll always want you. Maybe I went and disremembered you and faather a bit after I wur married, but now I’ve a youngster of my own it just shows me a liddle bit of wot you feel ... and I’m sorry.” He suddenly kissed her work-soiled, roughened hand, with its broken nails and thick dull wedding-ring sunk into the gnarled finger. “That’s wot they do to ladies in France.” 6 She watched him walk off down the Street, stopping to light his pipe where the oast of Egypt Farm made a lee against the racing wind. Then she walked slowly and heavily back to the house, planning a little consolation for herself in listening to Nell’s tale of wonders. But when she came to the kitchen she found that Nell had gone upstairs—to wash, Mus’ Beatup told her. Moved by a spasm of tenderness, she took the kettle from the fire and creaked off with it to her daughter’s room. Knocking at bedroom doors was a refinement unknown at Worge. Mrs. Beatup accordingly burst in, to find Nell sitting on the bed, with her face hidden in her hands. She had taken off her gown, and sat arrayed in a short silk petticoat and an under-bodice of a transparency that made her mother gasp; over her shoulders was nothing but two pale-blue ribbons, against which her arms showed yellowish-white and plumper than they used to be. So astonished was Mrs. Beatup at this display that she scarcely noticed the hidden face. “Nell, how fine! But you’ll catch your death—I wonder your husband let you....” Her voice trailed off, for Nell had dropped her hands, and her face was running with tears. “My poor liddle girl!”—the mother’s heart went out in pity. She put the kettle on the floor, and going over to the bed, sat down on it with a great creaking of springs, and put her arms round her daughter—at first rather gingerly, for fear of spoiling so much elegance, then straining them closer, as Nell, melted into an abandonment of weakness, began to sob against her breast. “My poor liddle girl!... It’s unaccountable sad fur you. I know.... I know.... But doan’t you vrother, chick—he’ll come back. I’ve a feeling as he’ll come back.” A long shudder passed through Nell. Then suddenly she raised herself, gripping her mother’s arms, while her eyes blazed through her tears. “Oh, mother, mother ... don’t you see? ... it’s not that I’m afraid he won’t come back ... it’s that I’m afraid he will.” She threw herself down upon the pillow, sobbing with the accumulated misery, humiliation, rage and dread of weeks. Mrs. Beatup stared at her, dumbfounded. “Nell—wot are you talking of? You doan’t want Steve to come back?” “No—I hate him. I—I ... if he comes back ... and takes me away to be my husband for good, I—I’ll kill myself.” “Reckon you doan’t know what you’re saying. You loved him unaccountable when you wur wed.”