她把他领进临时的客厅。客厅很小，死气沉沉的令人发室，里面摆着红木家具，墙上挂着祖先的放大碳墨画像，阴森森的。雷德福德太太撇下他离开了。她威风凛凛的，神情庄重。一会儿克莱拉出来了，脸涨得通红。他心里感到一片迷惑，她似乎不太愿意在自己家里看到别人。

    “我还以为不是你的声音呢！”她说。

    她一不做，二不休，索性把他从阴森森的客厅请进了厨房。

    那也是一间又小又黑的屋子，不过屋里全被白花网覆盖，她母亲已经重新坐到碗柜边从一大块花边网上抽着线，她的右手放着一团毛茸茸、松散的棉线，左边放着很多四分三英寸宽的花边，面前那块炉边的地毯上堆着一大堆花边网。从花边网上抽出来的棉纱线就撒在壁炉边和围栏上。保罗生怕踩在棉纱堆上，不敢走上前。

    梳理花边的纺纱机放在桌上，还有一叠棕色的纸板，一捆绕花边的纸板，一小盒针，沙发上还放着一堆抽过线的花边。

    屋子里全是花边，光线又暗、气温又热，把雪白的花边衬托得格外醒目。

    “既然你进屋了，就不必管这些活了。”雷德福德太太说，“我知道我们几乎堵死了道。不过，请坐。”

    克莱拉感到格外窘迫，她让他坐在一张正对着白花边靠墙的椅子上，自己则十分羞涩地坐在沙发上。

    “你想喝点黑啤酒吗？”雷德福德太太问，“克莱拉，给他拿瓶黑啤酒。”

    他推辞着，可是雷德福德太太硬劝他喝。

    “你看上 去还对付得了这酒，”她说，“难道你从来没因喝酒而红脸吗？”

    “幸好我脸皮厚，看不出血色来。”他回答道。

    克莱拉又羞又恼，给他拿来一瓶黑啤酒和一个杯子。 他倒了一杯黑啤酒喝。

    “好，”他举起杯说，“祝你健康！”

    “谢谢你。”雷德福德太太说。

    他把黑啤酒一饮而尽。

    “自己点上支烟吧，只要你不把房子烧着了就行。”雷德福德太太说道。

    “谢谢你。”他回答道。

    “别，你不必谢我，”她答道，“我很高兴在这房子里又能闻到点烟味。我以为屋子里要全是妇人就跟没生火的屋子一样死气沉沉。我可不是一只喜欢守着墙角的蜘蛛，我喜欢有个男人陪伴，只要他多少能让人骂几句就行了。”

    克莱拉开始干活了。她的纺车呜噜呜噜地转动着，白色花边从她指缝间跳到纸板上，一张纸板绕满了，她就把线铰断，把一头别在绕好的花边下面。然后，在纺纱机上安一张新纸板。保罗注视着她，她一本正经地坐着，脖子和双臂都裸露在外面，两耳还羞得通红，她惭愧的低着头，满睑专注的干活神态。她的双臂衬着白色花边，更显得肤如凝脂，充满了活力。两只保养得很细嫩的手灵活地干着活，她从容地干着。他不知不觉地一直这样望着她。她低头的时候，他看见她脖子和肩头相连处的曲线，看到她暗褐色的花髻，看着移动的闪亮的双臂。

    “我听克莱拉提及过你，”她母亲继续说，“你在乔丹的厂里工作，是吗？”她不停地抽着花边。

    “是的。”

    “嗳，说起来，我还记得托马斯·乔丹曾经向我要太妃糖吃呢。”

    “是呀！”保罗笑道，“他吃到了吗？”

    “有时候能，有时吃不到——这是后来的事了。因为他就是那种人，光拿人家的而从不舍得 给人家，他是——至少过去是这样的。”

    “我觉得 他很正派。”保罗说。

    “是的。我很高兴听你这么说。”

     雷德福德太太坦然地盯着他看。他身上有某种她喜欢的果断神情。她的脸上的皮肉虽然松弛了，可是依然神色镇定，身上有种坚强的气质，所以她看上 去不见老，只有皱纹和松弛的面颊显示出岁月的过失。她具有正值青春的少妇的力量和沉着。她继续慢慢地、优雅地抽着花边，巨大的花边网很自然地堆在她的裙上；一段花边落在她的身边一她双臂形态优美，只是如象牙般发黄且泛着油光，当然， 没有克莱拉双臂那种深深迷住他的柔和光泽。

   “你一直都跟米丽亚姆·莱渥斯相好？”她母亲问他。

    “嗯……。”他答道。

    “哦，她是个好姑娘。”她继续说。“她非常好，不过她有点太高做了，我不喜欢。”

    “她是有点儿这样。”他表示赞同。

    “她要不长上翅膀从众人头上飞过才不会甘心呢，决不甘心。”她说。

    克莱拉打断了话头，于是他告诉她捎来的口信。她低声下气地跟他说话。他在她做苦工时拜访了她，她丝毫没有料到。但能使她如此低声下气，他不由得感到情绪高昂，仿佛看到了希望似的。

    “你喜欢纺线吗？”他问。

    “女人家还能干什么！”她苦涩地答道。

    “这活儿很苦吧？”

    “多少有点吧，还不全是女人干的活儿。这就是逼迫把我们女人投入劳动力市场后，男人玩的另一个花招。”

    “好了，闭嘴别再谈男人啦。”她母亲说。“我说呀，要不是女人傻，男人不会变坏的。就没有哪个男人敢对我使坏，除非 他想惹麻烦。当然啦，男人都是些讨厌的家伙，这自然不必说了。”

    “可是他们的确都还不错，对吗？”他问。

    “说起来，男人和女人就是有点儿不同。”她答道。

    “你还想回乔丹厂去吗？”他问克莱拉。

    “不，不想。”她答道。

    “想，她想的！”她母亲叫道，“如果她能回去就谢天谢地啦。她总是那么趾高气扬像骑在马背上，而她的马又饿又瘦，总有一天那马背会把她切成两半。”

    克莱拉忍受着母亲带来的痛苦。保罗感到自己好像眼睛越睁越大。他是否该把克莱拉平时那些愤愤不平的话当真呢？她正埋头纺线，他想她也许需要他帮助，不由得喜上心头。看来她口头上摒弃，实际上被剥夺而得不到的东西还真不少呢！她的胳膊机械地运动着，可是那双胳膊决不该变成机械零件啊！她的头伏到花边上去了，可是那头决不该伏到花边上去的啊。她不停地纺纱，仿佛被生活抛弃在人间的废墟上，对她来说，被人抛弃的滋味该是多么辛酸，就仿佛世间不再需要她了，难怪她要大声疾呼呢！

    她陪他走到大门口。他站在台阶下寒伧的小街上，抬头看着她。她的身材举止都那么文雅，不由得使他想起了被废黜的朱诺。她站在大门口，对那条街，对周围的一切显出畏缩不前的神色。

    “你要和霍基森太太去赫克纳尔吗？”

    他不着边际地和她说着话，两眼定定地望着她。她那对灰眼睛终于和他的目光相遇了。她双眼带着羞赧地望着保罗，仿佛不幸落在别人手中而在苦苦哀求。他感到心绪纷乱，不知所措。他原以为她是非常高傲和非常坚强的女人。

    他一离开她就想逃，他梦魔似的走到了车站，回到家里，还没意识到自己是怎样离开她住的那条街的。

    他忽然想起蜷线车间的头苏姗要结婚了。第二天就去问她：

    “喂，苏姗，听说你就要结婚了，是吗？”

    苏姗涨红了脸。

    “谁 告诉你的？”她答道。

    “没有谁， 我只不过听说你想要……”

    “算啦，我是想结婚，你用不着告诉别人，而且，我但愿不结算啦！”

    “嗳，苏姗，这话可不能让我相信。”

    “是吗？不过尽管相信好啦， 我倒宁愿在这儿呆下去。”

    保罗慌了。

    “为什么？苏姗？”

    姑娘满脸通红，眼睛发亮。

    “不为什么！”

    “你一定要结婚吗？”

    她看了看他算是回答。他为人坦率诚实，叫女人不由得信赖他，他心里明白。

    她眼里噙着泪水。

    “不过你等着瞧吧，一切都会好起来的，你好自为之吧。”他若有所思地继续说。

    “只能这样了。”

    “是啊，做最坏的打算，向最好处努力。”

    不久，他又找到机会去拜访克莱拉。

    “你愿意再回乔丹的工厂吗？”他说。

    她停下手里的活儿，没有回答。脸颊逐渐泛起红潮。

    “怎么啦？”她问。

    保罗感到相当尴尬。

    “哦，因为苏姗想走了。”他说。

    克莱拉继续纺线，花边一跳一蹦地绕到了纸板上。

    他等着她回答。最后她头也不抬，用古怪的嗓门低低地说，

    “这事你对别人说起过没有？”

    “除了对你，对别人我一个字也没有说过。”

    两人又陷入了长时间的沉默之中。

    “等招工广告出来我就去应征吧。”

    “你还是先去应征的好。我会告诉你准确时间。”

    她继续在那台小机器上纺线，没再跟他抬杠。

    克莱拉来到了乔丹的工厂。有些老资格的工人，其中包括芬妮，还记着她先前那一种怪脾气，凭良心说大家对此都耿耿于怀。克莱拉一向板着面孔，沉默寡言，自恃高人一等，从来不跟女工们打成一片。她要是有机会找岔子。就冷冷地找到人家，彬彬有礼地指出错误所在，让入家感到比挨骂还丢脸。对芬妮，这个贫穷可怜、神经紧张的驼背姑娘倒体贴同情，结果惹得芬妮多洒了些辛酸泪，其他监工对她出言不逊，她倒没哭得这么伤心。

    克莱拉本身有些地方保罗并不喜欢，甚至很惹 他生气。如果她在身边，他总是看着她的健壮的脖颈，还有脖子上蓬蓬松松的金发，那发脚很低。她的脸上和双臂上长着细细的绒毛，几乎看不清。可是他一旦看见一回，总是想看。

    他下午画画时，她就走过来，站在他跟前，一动也不动。尽管她不说话也不碰他，他总感到她在身边；尽管她站在一码以外，他总感到她挨着他的身体。于是他再也画不成了。他扔下画笔，干脆回过头去跟她说话。

    有时她夸奖他的画，有时却吹毛求疵、冷酷无情。

    “那张画得不大自然。”她会说。正因为她的指责中包含着几分真实就更惹得他人冒三丈。

    有时 他会热情地问：“这张怎么样？”

    “呣！”她小声含糊地说，“我觉得没多大意思。”

    “因为你不理解它。”他反驳道。

    “那你干吗问我？”

    “因为我原以为你能理解。”

    她耸耸肩对他的画表示不屑。这下可 把他气疯了，他暴跳如雷，然后痛骂她一顿，又情绪高昂地把自己的画解释一番。这才吸引了她，引起她的兴致，可是她从来不认错。

    在她投入妇女运动的十年中，她接受了一定的教育。而且也感染了几分米丽亚姆的那种热心的求知欲，自学法语，勉强可以阅读。她自以为是个不同一般的人，特别是不同于本阶级的其他女人。蜷线车间的女工全出身于良好家庭。这是规模不大的特殊行业，有一定的声誉。两间工房里都有种高尚优雅的气氛。个过克莱拉就是在她的同事中也显得落落寡合。

    可是，这些事她向来都不透露给保罗。她向来不吐露自己的心事。她身上有种神秘感。她沉默寡言，很少开口。他感到她内心私藏着很多事。表面上她过去的真情人人尽知，但是内在的奥秘众人都不知道，这真激动人心。而且有时保罗碰巧发现她绷着脸，偷偷摸摸地用眼角瞅他，他总是赶紧避开。她也常常碰到他的眼光。不过她的眼光好像很快被掩饰过去，毫无真情流露。只给他一个温厚的微笑。对他来说，克莱拉具有特别强烈的刺激性，因为她掌握了一些他无法获得的知识和经验。

    有一天，他从她的工作台上拿起一本书。

    “你读法文书，是吗？”他惊叫道。

    克莱拉漫不经心地瞥了他一眼。她正在做一只淡紫色的弹力丝袜，慢条斯理、有条不紊地转动着蜷线织机，偶尔低头看看手里的活儿，或调整一下织针。这样她的动人的脖颈露了出来，上面长着汗毛和纤细的发丝，衬托着光艳夺目的淡紫色丝绒，越发显得洁白。她又转了几圈才住手。

    “你说什么？”她甜甜地一 笑，问道。

    保罗遭到她如此冷淡无礼的对待，不由得双眼冒火。

    “我不知道你懂法文，”他彬彬有礼地说。

    “真不知道吗？”她带着一丝嘲笑答道。

    “摆臭架子！”他说，不过声音轻得简直听不太清楚。

    他望着她生气地缄口不语。她似乎瞧不起自己一针针织的袜子，可是她织的袜子一点毛病也挑不出来。

    “你不喜欢蜷线车间的工作？”他说。

    “哦，哪里，干什么都是工作。”她回答，仿佛她心里全知道。

    他对她的冷淡很吃惊。他无论干什么事都有十分的热情。她一定是个不同寻常的人。

    “你愿意干什么？”他问。

    她宽厚地对他笑笑，说道：

    “我向来没有多少机会挑三拣回的。所以我从不浪费时间考虑这个问题。”

    “呸！”他说，现在轮到他表示不屑了。“你这样说只不过出于你太高傲，不愿老实承认自己想得到而偏偏得不到的东西罢了。”

    She admitted him into the parlour, which opened on to the street. It was a small, stuffy, defunct room, of mahogany, and deathlyenlargements of photographs of departed people done in carbon. Mrs. Radford left him. She was stately, almost martial. In a moment Clara appeared. She flushed deeply, and he was coveredwith confusion. It seemed as if she did not like being discoveredin her home circumstances.
　　"I thought it couldn't be your voice," she said.
　　But she might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb. She invited him out of the mausoleum of a parlour into the kitchen.
　　That was a little, darkish room too, but it was smotheredin white lace. The mother had seated herself again by the cupboard,and was drawing thread from a vast web of lace. A clump of fluff andravelled cotton was at her right hand, a heap of three-quarter-inch lacelay on her left, whilst in front of her was the mountain of lace web,piling the hearthrug. Threads of curly cotton, pulled out from betweenthe lengths of lace, strewed over the fender and the fireplace. Paul dared not go forward, for fear of treading on piles of white stuff.
　　On the table was a jenny for carding the lace. There wasa pack of brown cardboard squares, a pack of cards of lace,a little box of pins, and on the sofa lay a heap of drawn lace.
　　The room was all lace, and it was so dark and warm that the white,snowy stuff seemed the more distinct.
　　"If you're coming in you won't have to mind the work,"said Mrs. Radford. "I know we're about blocked up. But sityou down."
　　Clara, much embarrassed, gave him a chair against the wallopposite the white heaps. Then she herself took her placeon the sofa, shamedly.
　　"Will you drink a bottle of stout?" Mrs. Radford asked. "Clara, get him a bottle of stout."
　　He protested, but Mrs. Radford insisted.
　　"You look as if you could do with it," she said. "Haven't younever any more colour than that?"
　　"It's only a thick skin I've got that doesn't showthe blood through," he answered.
　　Clara, ashamed and chagrined, brought him a bottle of stoutand a glass. He poured out some of the black stuff.
　　"Well," he said, lifting the glass, "here's health!"
　　"And thank you," said Mrs. Radford.
　　He took a drink of stout.
　　"And light yourself a cigarette, so long as you don't setthe house on fire," said Mrs. Radford.
　　"Thank you," he replied.
　　"Nay, you needn't thank me," she answered. "I s'll beglad to smell a bit of smoke in th' 'ouse again. A house o'women is as dead as a house wi' no fire, to my thinkin'. I'mnot a spider as likes a corner to myself. I like a man about,if he's only something to snap at."
　　Clara began to work. Her jenny spun with a subdued buzz;the white lace hopped from between her fingers on to the card. It was filled; she snipped off the length, and pinned the enddown to the banded lace. Then she put a new card in her jenny. Paul watched her. She sat square and magnificent. Her throat andarms were bare. The blood still mantled below her ears; she benther head in shame of her humility. Her face was set on her work. Her arms were creamy and full of life beside the white lace;her large, well-kept hands worked with a balanced movement,as if nothing would hurry them. He, not knowing, watched her allthe time. He saw the arch of her neck from the shoulder, as shebent her head; he saw the coil of dun hair; he watched her moving,gleaming arms.
　　"I've heard a bit about you from Clara," continued the mother. "You're in Jordan's, aren't you?" She drew her lace unceasing.
　　"Yes."
　　"Ay, well, and I can remember when Thomas Jordan used to askME for one of my toffies."
　　"Did he?" laughed Paul. "And did he get it?"
　　"Sometimes he did, sometimes he didn't--which was latterly. For he's the sort that takes all and gives naught, he is--or usedto be."
　　"I think he's very decent," said Paul.
　　"Yes; well, I'm glad to hear it."
　　Mrs. Radford looked across at him steadily. There was somethingdetermined about her that he liked. Her face was falling loose,but her eyes were calm, and there was something strong in her thatmade it seem she was not old; merely her wrinkles and loose cheekswere an anachronism. She had the strength and sang-froid of a womanin the prime of life. She continued drawing the lace with slow,dignified movements. The big web came up inevitably over her apron;the length of lace fell away at her side. Her arms were finely shapen,but glossy and yellow as old ivory. They had not the peculiar dullgleam that made Clara's so fascinating to him.
　　"And you've been going with Miriam Leivers?" the mother asked him.
　　"Well--" he answered.
　　"Yes, she's a nice girl," she continued. "She's very nice,but she's a bit too much above this world to suit my fancy."
　　"She is a bit like that," he agreed.
　　"She'll never be satisfied till she's got wings and can flyover everybody's head, she won't," she said.
　　Clara broke in, and he told her his message. She spoke humblyto him. He had surprised her in her drudgery. To have her humblemade him feel as if he were lifting his head in expectation.
　　"Do you like jennying?" he asked.
　　"What can a woman do!" she replied bitterly.
　　"Is it sweated?"
　　"More or less. Isn't ALL woman's work? That's another trickthe men have played, since we force ourselves into the labour market."
　　"Now then, you shut up about the men," said her mother. "If thewomen wasn't fools, the men wouldn't be bad uns, that's what I say. No man was ever that bad wi' me but what he got it back again. Not but what they're a lousy lot, there's no denying it."
　　"But they're all right really, aren't they?" he asked.
　　"Well, they're a bit different from women," she answered.
　　"Would you care to be back at Jordan's?" he asked Clara.
　　"I don't think so," she replied.
　　"Yes, she would!" cried her mother; "thank her stars if shecould get back. Don't you listen to her. She's for ever on that'igh horse of hers, an' it's back's that thin an' starved it'llcut her in two one of these days."
　　Clara suffered badly from her mother. Paul felt as if his eyeswere coming very wide open. Wasn't he to take Clara's fulminationsso seriously, after all? She spun steadily at her work. He experienceda thrill of joy, thinking she might need his help. She seemeddenied and deprived of so much. And her arm moved mechanically,that should never have been subdued to a mechanism, and her headwas bowed to the lace, that never should have been bowed. She seemedto be stranded there among the refuse that life has thrown away,doing her jennying. It was a bitter thing to her to be put asideby life, as if it had no use for her. No wonder she protested.
　　She came with him to the door. He stood below in the mean street,looking up at her. So fine she was in her stature and her bearing,she reminded him of Juno dethroned. As she stood in the doorway,she winced from the street, from her surroundings.
　　"And you will go with Mrs. Hodgkisson to Hucknall?"
　　He was talking quite meaninglessly, only watching her. Her grey eyes at last met his. They looked dumb with humiliation,pleading with a kind of captive misery. He was shaken and at a loss. He had thought her high and mighty.
　　When he left her, he wanted to run. He went to the stationin a sort of dream, and was at home without realising he had movedout of her street.
　　He had an idea that Susan, the overseer of the Spiral girls,was about to be married. He asked her the next day.
　　"I say, Susan, I heard a whisper of your getting married. What about it?"
　　Susan flushed red.
　　"Who's been talking to you?" she replied.
　　"Nobody. I merely heard a whisper that you WERE thinking---"
　　"Well, I am, though you needn't tell anybody. What's more,I wish I wasn't!"
　　"Nay, Susan, you won't make me believe that."
　　"Shan't I? You CAN believe it, though. I'd rather stophere a thousand times."
　　Paul was perturbed.
　　"Why, Susan?"
　　The girl's colour was high, and her eyes flashed.
　　"That's why!"
　　"And must you?"
　　For answer, she looked at him. There was about him a candourand gentleness which made the women trust him. He understood.
　　"Ah, I'm sorry," he said.
　　Tears came to her eyes.
　　"But you'll see it'll turn out all right. You'll make the bestof it," he continued rather wistfully.
　　"There's nothing else for it."
　　"Yea, there's making the worst of it. Try and make it all right."
　　He soon made occasion to call again on Clara.
　　"Would you," he said, "care to come back to Jordan's?"
　　She put down her work, laid her beautiful arms on the table,and looked at him for some moments without answering. Gradually theflush mounted her cheek.
　　"Why?" she asked.
　　Paul felt rather awkward.
　　"Well, because Susan is thinking of leaving," he said.
　　Clara went on with her jennying. The white lace leapedin little jumps and bounds on to the card. He waited for her. Without raising her head, she said at last, in a peculiar low voice:
　　"Have you said anything about it?"
　　"Except to you, not a word."
　　There was again a long silence.
　　"I will apply when the advertisement is out," she said.
　　"You will apply before that. I will let you know exactly when."
　　She went on spinning her little machine, and did not contradict him.
　　Clara came to Jordan's. Some of the older hands, Fanny among them,remembered her earlier rule, and cordially disliked the memory. Clara had always been "ikey", reserved, and superior. She had nevermixed with the girls as one of themselves. If she had occasionto find fault, she did it coolly and with perfect politeness,which the defaulter felt to be a bigger insult than crassness. Towards Fanny, the poor, overstrung hunchback, Clara was unfailinglycompassionate and gentle, as a result of which Fanny shedmore bitter tears than ever the rough tongues of the other overseershad caused her.
　　There was something in Clara that Paul disliked, and muchthat piqued him. If she were about, he always watched her strongthroat or her neck, upon which the blonde hair grew low and fluffy. There was a fine down, almost invisible, upon the skin of her faceand arms, and when once he had perceived it, he saw it always.
　　When he was at his work, painting in the afternoon,she would come and stand near to him, perfectly motionless. Then he felt her, though she neither spoke nor touched him. Although she stood a yard away he felt as if he were in contactwith her. Then he could paint no more. He flung down the brushes,and turned to talk to her.
　　Sometimes she praised his work; sometimes she was criticaland cold.
　　"You are affected in that piece," she would say; and, as therewas an element of truth in her condemnation, his blood boiledwith anger.
　　Again: "What of this?" he would ask enthusiastically.
　　"H'm!" She made a small doubtful sound. "It doesn't interestme much."
　　"Because you don't understand it," he retorted.
　　"Then why ask me about it?"
　　"Because I thought you would understand."
　　She would shrug her shoulders in scorn of his work. She maddened him. He was furious. Then he abused her, and went intopassionate exposition of his stuff. This amused and stimulated her. But she never owned that she had been wrong.
　　During the ten years that she had belonged to the women's movementshe had acquired a fair amount of education, and, having had someof Miriam's passion to be instructed, had taught herself French,and could read in that language with a struggle. She consideredherself as a woman apart, and particularly apart, from her class. The girls in the Spiral department were all of good homes. It was a small, special industry, and had a certain distinction. There was an air of refinement in both rooms. But Clara was aloofalso from her fellow-workers.
　　None of these things, however, did she reveal to Paul. She was not the one to give herself away. There was a sense ofmystery about her. She was so reserved, he felt she had much to reserve. Her history was open on the surface, but its inner meaning was hiddenfrom everybody. It was exciting. And then sometimes he caughther looking at him from under her brows with an almost furtive,sullen scrutiny, which made him move quickly. Often she met his eyes. But then her own were, as it were, covered over, revealing nothing. She gave him a little, lenient smile. She was to him extraordinarilyprovocative, because of the knowledge she seemed to possess,and gathered fruit of experience he could not attain.
　　One day he picked up a copy of Lettres de mon Moulin fromher work-bench.
　　"You read French, do you?" he cried.

    Clara glanced round negligently. She was making an elasticstocking of heliotrope silk, turning the Spiral machine with slow,balanced regularity, occasionally bending down to see her work or toadjust the needles; then her magnificent neck, with its down and finepencils of hair, shone white against the lavender, lustrous silk. She tumed a few more rounds, and stopped.
　　"What did you say?" she asked, smiling sweetly.
　　Paul's eyes glittered at her insolent indifference to him.
　　"I did not know you read French," he said, very polite.
　　"Did you not?" she replied, with a faint, sarcastic smile.
　　"Rotten swank!" he said, but scarcely loud enough to be heard.
　　He shut his mouth angrily as he watched her. She seemedto scorn the work she mechanically produced; yet the hose shemade were as nearly perfect as possible.
　　"You don't like Spiral work," he said.
　　"Oh, well, all work is work," she answered, as if she knewall about it.
　　He marvelled at her coldness. He had to do everything hotly. She must be something special.
　　"What would you prefer to do?" he asked.
　　She laughed at him indulgently, as she said:
　　"There is so little likelihood of my ever being given a choice,that I haven't wasted time considering."
　　"Pah!" he said, contemptuous on his side now. "You only saythat because you're too proud to own up what you want and can't get."