Moreover, his mother suspected him of an unrecognised leaning towards Clara, and, since the latter was a married woman, she wished he would fall in love with one of the girls in a better station of life.
But he was stupid, and would refuse to love or even to admire a girl much, just because she was his social superior.
"My boy," said his mother to him, "all your cleverness, your breaking away from old things, and taking life in your own hands, doesn't seem to bring you much happiness." "What is happiness!" he cried.

"It's nothing to me! How AM I to be happy ?" The plump question disturbed her.
"That's for you to judge, my lad.

But if you could meet some GOOD woman who would MAKE you happy--and you began to think of settling your life--when you have the means--so that you could work without all this fretting--it would be much better for you." He frowned.

His mother caught him on the raw of his wound of Miriam.
He pushed the tumbled hair off his forehead, his eyes full of pain and fire.
"You mean easy, mother," he cried.

"That's a woman's whole doctrine for life--ease of soul and physical comfort.