He raided the larder, helped himself to Mrs. Blake’s rock cakes, which were the perfection of simple baking, then went upstairs. He strolled to the window, as he nearly always did, partly because if there were any letters for him he would find them on the table in the window. There was none. He looked out. Across the road, walking briskly, was a little man whom he did not remember having seen before; the little man glanced up, almost as if he was aware of being watched, but quickly looked down again, and went straight on.

Jim took off his coat and hung it on the back of a chair, went into the bathroom, washed, and began to whistle to himself. He was feeling a little less glum, and the cake had whetted his appetite. Still whistling, he hurried down the stairs. He was surprised by his return to cheerfulness, and dryly inferred that his feeling for Evelyn could not go really deep. He took the meal out of the oven, an ample one obviously served at lunch-time. It was very hot, and he winced when his thumb caught the side of the dish. The gravy had dried to dark brown round the edge, but when he took the vegetable dish lid off, steam rose up in a cloud; yet it did not look dry.

He put it on the wooden mat which Mrs. Blake had provided, and began to eat, cautiously at first. He propped up the newspaper against a pot of jam, and glanced through the headlines which he had already seen that morning; the international news was so-so, the home news was of further crises. Cheerful world!

He was halfway through, and eating more quickly because the food had cooled, when there was a ring at the front door.

“Oh, damn,” he said mildly, and pushed his chair back and went along, dabbing at his lips with his table-napkin, which he dropped on to the hall-stand. He could see the shadow of a girl behind the two glass panels set in the upper part of the door, and wondered if Mrs. Blake had left her key, and had come to see if he was in.