Jolly was at the wall-table, and there were traces of mince, potatoes, tomatoes and egg on a chopping board in front of him.

“Cottage pie,” announced Rollison.

Jolly started and turned his head.

“I—yes, that’s right, sir.”

“Enough for three?” asked Rollison.

“Plenty, sir.”

“Be half-prepared,” advised Rollison. “I had a tele-phone call from a woman stranger who will be here just after twelve, and if she measures up to those new standards you credit me with, she may be persuaded to stay to lunch.”

“Very good, sir,” Jolly said. “I wonder—”

“Yes?”

“I’ve been thinking, sir.” Jolly went on, turning the shredded onions over with a wooden fork, “that you have had a very pleasant spell of inactivity—comparative inactivity. You won’t commit yourself to any course of action simply for the sake of having something to do, will you?”

“I hope not,” replied Rollison. “Do you think I might?”

“I have known you feel that the moment has come to—ah—seek pastures new,” Jolly said. “If you will forgive the expression. May I ask whether the caller said what she wished to see you about?”

“No,” said Rollison.

“In that case, sir,” said Jolly. “I ask you most earnestly not to act precipitately.”

“I will ponder profoundly before taking any action whatever,” promised Rollison. “I might even consult you.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Jolly, solemnly.

Rollison went out, closing the door meekly behind him. He went into his bedroom, off which a small bathroom led, and peered at himself in the mirror, then gave a broad grin, showing his very white teeth.

“That’s right, preen yourself,” he jeered.

He went back to the Trophy Wall, but did not spend much more time at it. The past had lost its nostalgic appeal and he was ready for tomorrow. Jolly was right in one way, at least—he hadn’t been very active for a long time.