“That’s right, shout my head off. Here it is. How can I give it to you if you’re in the kitchen. It’s the brush with the initials—S.B.”

“I know his initials.”

“Mother, does he want all these vests? You know he never uses them.”

“It’s January, Peggy.”

“She knows it’s January, Hilda. You haven’t got to tell the neighbours. Can you smell something burning?”

“It’s only mother’s sunshade,” Samuel said in the locked bedroom.

He dressed and went down. The gas in the breakfast room was on again. His mother was boiling an egg for him on the gas-stove. “We’ll have our breakfast later,” she said, “you mustn’t miss the train. Did you sleep well?”

“No burglars last night, Sam,” his father said.

His mother brought the egg in. “You can’t expect them every night.”

Peggy and his father sat down in front of the empty grate.

“What do you think you’ll do first when you get there, Sam?” said Peggy.

“He’ll get himself a nice room, of course, not too central. And don’t have an Irish landlady.” His mother brushed his collar as he ate. “Go and get yourself settled straightaway, that’s the important thing.”

“I’ll get myself settled.”

“Don’t forget to look under the wallpaper for bugs.”

“That’s enough of that, Peggy. Sam knows a clean place when he sees one.”

He saw himself knocking at a lodging-house in the very centre of the city, and an Irishwoman appearing at the door. “Good morning, madam, have you a cheap room?” “Cheaper than sunlight to you, Danny Boy.” She would not be more than twenty-one. “Has it got bugs?” “All over the walls, praise be to God." "I’ll take it.”

“I’ll know what I’m doing,” he said to his mother.

“Jenkins’ motor isn’t here yet,” Peggy said. “Perhaps there’s a puncture.”

If he doesn’t come soon, they’ll notice everything. I’ll cut my throat on a piece of china.

“Remember to call on Mrs. Chapman. Give her all our love from 42.”

“I’ll call on her tomorrow, Mother.”

The taxi drew up outside. The corners of bedroom blinds would be lifted all over the street.

“Here’s your wallet. Don’t put it in your handkerchief pocket now. You never know when you’ll be wanting to blow your nose.”

“You’ll be scattering largesse,” Peggy said. She kissed him on the forehead.

Remind me to wipe it off in the cab.

“You’re kissing the editor of the Times now,” said his mother.

“Well, not quite that, Sam. Not yet, eh?” His father said, “Rungs of the ladder,” and then looked away.

“Write tomorrow morning sharp. Send us the news.”

“You send me your news, too. Mr. Jenkins is blowing his horn.”

“Better than blowing your trumpet,” Peggy said. “And there’s never any news in Mortimer Street.”

You wait, slyboots. Wait till the flames touch the doilie with the herons on it.

He came down to pat Tinker.

“Come on, don’t fuss over the old dog, he’s all fleas. It’s gone seven.”