Sons and Lovers - Daimon Club

"There's a pair of slippers of mine."
"Thank you," she said. "They aren't wet."
He put the slippers near her feet. She left them there.
Morel sat down. Both the men seemed helpless, and each of them
had a rather hunted look. But Dawes now carried himself quietly,
seemed to yield himself, while Paul seemed to screw himself up.
Clara thought she had never seen him look so small and mean.
He was as if trying to get himself into the smallest possible compass.
And as he went about arranging, and as he sat talking, there seemed
something false about him and out of tune. Watching him unknown,
she said to herself there was no stability about him. He was fine
in his way, passionate, and able to give her drinks of pure life
when he was in one mood. And now he looked paltry and insignificant.
There was nothing stable about him. Her husband had more manly dignity.
At any rate HE did not waft about with any wind. There was something
evanescent about Morel, she thought, something shifting and false.
He would never make sure ground for any woman to stand on.
She despised him rather for his shrinking together, getting smaller.
Her husband at least was manly, and when he was beaten gave in.
But this other would never own to being beaten. He would shift round
and round, prowl, get smaller. She despised him. And yet she watched
him rather than Dawes, and it seemed as if their three fates lay in
his hands. She hated him for it.
She seemed to understand better now about men, and what they could
or would do. She was less afraid of them, more sure of herself.
That they were not the small egoists she had imagined them made
her more comfortable. She had learned a good deal--almost as much
as she wanted to learn. Her cup had been full. It was still as full
as she could carry. On the whole, she would not be sorry when he
was gone.
They had dinner, and sat eating nuts and drinking by the fire.
Not a serious word had been spoken. Yet Clara realised that Morel
was withdrawing from the circle, leaving her the option to stay
with her husband. It angered her. He was a mean fellow, after all,
to take what he wanted and then give her back. She did
not remember that she herself had had what she wanted,
and really, at the bottom of her heart, wished to be given back.
Paul felt crumpled up and lonely. His mother had really
supported his life. He had loved her; they two had, in fact,
faced the world together. Now she was gone, and for ever behind
him was the gap in life, the tear in the veil, through which his
life seemed to drift slowly, as if he were drawn towards death.
He wanted someone of their own free initiative to help him. The lesser
things he began to let go from him, for fear of this big thing,
the lapse towards death, following in the wake of his beloved.
Clara could not stand for him to hold on to. She wanted him,
but not to understand him. He felt she wanted the man on top,
not the real him that was in trouble. That would be too much trouble