Downstairs in the front sitting room Martin was watching the flames in the grate. He had thrown the evening paper aside. There was nothing in it. He was thinking it was nice to be home at the time other men got home at night. Nice for once, anyway. He wouldn’t want to have to get home on time every night the way other men did, walking into a squalling household, with the children trying to do their homework on the same table where their mother was trying to set the tea. But, of course, he was different from other men. He wasn’t the least bit domesticated. Nobody could call him a domestic animal. How many other men in Dublin had their own room with their own books in it, and their own routine going in the house — an unbreakable, independent routine that was perfectly justified because it depended on his job and his job depended on it. Delia had her house and the children, and he had his own life and yet they were all together. They were a united family all right. Nobody could deny that. Delia was a very good mother. He had nothing to worry about on that score. Ordinary men might want to be lord and master in the house, always throwing their weight around, but not Martin. A bit more money would have come in handy, but you couldn’t have everything.